Black Seconds
by fan-to-fiction
Summary: 'Have you seen her' she asked. 'No.' he answered. 'My God, something happened, she's gone! My baby is gone! Marron' R
1. Chapter 1

Author's notes: I do not own Dragonball Z, it belongs to Akira Toriyama and a bunch of other guys. In this story the characters are slightly O.O.C., though I'd like to think that Eighteens behaviour is normal (considering she's a mother). This story plays in an AU, which means that they do not have special powers and there are no aliens and such.

Enjoy!

Black Seconds

The days went by so slowly.

Marron Chestnut lifted her hand and counted all her fingers. On the 10th of September it was her birthday. It was only the first now. She had so many wishes. Most of all she wanted her own pet. Something warms and lively that belonged to her alone. Marron had a sweet face with big blue eyes. She was slender and had thick, sleek hair. She was witty and cheerful. She was almost too beautiful to be true. This thought frequently visited her mother, especially when Marron went outside and she saw her disappear around the corner. Too beautiful and too good to be true.

Marron swung her leg over bike, seating herself. She wanted to leave on her new Nakamura. She left a gigantic mess behind in her room, where she had been playing with carts and her absence would, at first, leave a big empty hole. Afterwards there would appear a strange tone that would leak through the walls and fill the house with worry. Her mother held her heart. But she couldn't put the girl in a cage, like a bird. She waved Marron off and smiled bravely. Keeping herself busy with choires. The vacuum cleaner would smother that new tone in the room. If she was sweating and became hot, or tired of cleaning, it numbed the pain in her chest, which appeared every time Marron went away. She threw a glance out of the window. The bike swept to the left. Marron went to the village. Everything was alright, she was wearing her helmet. A tough shell that was placed protectively around her head. Sheer preservation. In her pocket she kept a wallet with zebrastripes that contained ten dollars. It was enough for the latest number of the horsemagazine _Penny._ From the exchange she always bought some candy. She would need around fifteen minut to get to Mama Betty's shop. Her mother counted it in her head. Marron could be home around 18.40 pm. And then she kept in consideration that she might run into someone and talked a minute or ten. While she was waiting, she started to clean up her room. She took the carts and the dolls from the couch. She knew that her daughter could always hear her everywhere. She had implemented her own stern voice in the head of the girl and knew that it kept swirling around as an eternal warning. She felt guilty for it, guilty for she thought it obstructed her daugther's freedom, but she didn't dare not to. Just that voice would save Marron, if she was in danger one day.

Marron was a well raised girl who would never go against the will of her mother nor forget a promise. But the clock in Eighteen Chestnut's living room was approaching the seven and Marron had still not returned. Then, the first sting of fear made itself known. And afterwards that gnawing feeling appeared in her stomach that kept pushing her towards the window, where she would see Marron arrive every moment on her yellow bike. Her pink helmet would shine in the sun. The wheels would crunch softly over the gravel. Maybe a tinkle with the bell: I'm here again! Followed by a thud against the outer wall, from the handlebars. But she didn't come.

Eighteen Chestnut floated above everything that was familiar and safe. The floor sank beneath her feet. Her body, that would normally be heavy, weighed nothing anymore, she floated like a ghost through the rooms. Then she fell on the ground, with a numb pain in her chest. Why did this feel so familiar? Because she had gone through this situation years before, in her mind. Because she had always known that this beautiful child wouldn't be here forever. She almost went mad from fear, because she had felt it coming. The awareness that she could foresee things, the recognition that she had known this from the very first moment, made her dizzy. That's why I'm always so scared, thought Eighteen. For ten years I have feared every day and I had good reason for that. Now it's here. The nightmare is here. Big and black it gnaws on the inside of my heart.

At 19.15 pm she ripped herself out of the apathy and searched the phone book for the number of Mama Betty's Shop. She tried to keep her voice under control. It lasted a long time before her call was answered. Because she was standing here now with the phone in her hand, and with that also betraying her fear, she knew for sure that Marron could arrive every moment. As the final confirmation of the fact that she was just an overworried mother hen. But Marron didn't show up and a female voice answered the phone. Eighteen started with an apologizing laugh, because she heard that the woman who answered was an adult and she probably also had kids. She would understand it. My daughter has left on her bike to buy a _Penny_. At your Shop. Afterwards she would come home immediately, but she's not here yet. So I'm just calling to ask if she has been there. This said Eighteen.

She looked outside the window to protect herself from the answer.

'No', answered the woman. 'There has been no girl, not that I can remember.'

Eighteen kept silent. This answer couldn't be right. She had to have been there, why did that woman say such things? She wanted to hear another answer!

'She is small and has blond hair', she kept going stubornly. 'Ten years. She's wearing a blue jogging suit and a pink helmet. Her bike is yellow.'

The part of the bike didn't make any sense. She didn't take it with her inside, after all.

Mama Betty, the woman from the Shop, didn't dare to give an answer. She heared the growing panic and didn't want to make it worse. That's why she skipped through her memories of the last few hours, again. But no matter how much she would want it, there was no little girl there.

'Off course, there come and go a lot of kids', she said. 'The whole day long. But around this time it's quite. Between five and seven people have dinner. Afterwards it becomes busier again, 'till ten o'clock. Then I close.'

She didn't know what to say more. Furthermore, she had two burgers laying on the baking plate, they started to smell a little burned and a customer stood waiting. Eighteen searched for words. She couldn't hang up, didn't dare to break the connection that linked her to Marron. Because to that woman, she had been on her way to. She stared down the road. Once in a while a car passed by. The evening jam was over.

'But if she comes', she tried, 'Tell her I'm waiting for her.'

It kept quite. The woman in the Shop wanted to help, but didn't know how. How terrible, she thought, to have to answer no. While that woman desperately needed a yes.

Eighteen Chestnut hung up. A new calculation began. A creeping, uncomforting change in the light, in the temperature, in the landscape. Trees and bushes stood like prepared soldiers in a row. Suddenly she saw that the sky, which hadn't dropped one drip of water, was suddenly overcast. When did that happen? She felt her heart beat painfully, she heared the clock tick mechanically. The seconds, which she had always imagined herself as metal dots, turned into heavy, black drops she felt piece a piece. She saw her hands, dry and smooth. They looked like the hands of a younger woman, but they weren't. She had gotten Marron quite late and she had recently turned fortynine. Suddenly the fear turned into anger and she picked up the phone again. There were lots of thing to be done, Marron had friends and family in the neighbourhood. Eighteen was good friends with Bulma, and she had a daughter of ten, Bra, and a son of eighteen, Trunks. Marron's father, who didn't live with them, had two brothers in the centre, who were both married and had four kids together. They were family. Maybe she was with them. But then they would have called. Eighteen hesitated. First her friends, she thought. Angela. Or maybe Kirsten. She also went to Robin, a twelve year old boy from her class who had a horse, a lot. Her daughter's class list, with all the names and numbers, hung with tape to the kitchen door. She started at the top with Kirsten. No, too bad, no Marron there. The worry of the other woman, the uncomfortableness and the sympathy, and at last the inevitable end of the conversation – she'll come around, you know how kids are – bothered her immensely.

'Yes', Eighteen lied. But she didn't know. Marron was never late. At Theresa the phone wasn't answered. She talked to Robin's father who said his son was in the stable. She waited while he went to go check on him. The clock on the wall behind her irritated her, that endless ticking, she didn't like it. Robin's father came back. His son was alone in the stable. Eighteen hung up and took a breather. Her eyes were pulled, yet again, towards the window; as if pulled by a strong magnetic force. She called Bulma and broke down when she heared her voice. She could no longer stand upright, her legs seemed to fold into themselves, like she was getting paralysed.

'Step in the car immediately', Bulma said. 'Come to here, then we'll drive around to search for her. We'll find her!'

'Yes', Eighteen answered. 'But she doesn't have a key. Maybe she'll come home when we're searching for her!'

'Leave the door open. It doesn't matter if it is left open. She's probably looking at something. A fire, or a car accident. And then she forgets the time.'

Eighteen ripped the garage door open. The voice of her friend had calmed her. A fire, she thought. Off course. Marron is staring at the flames, her cheeks are red, the firemen are impressive with their black clothes and yellow helmets, she can't move – she is that captivated by the sirens and the crackling of the flames. If there was a fire, I would also not move an inch, captured by the heat. And it's so dry, it hasn't rained in ages. Or a crash. She had some trouble with the keys and saw it in her mind. Bowed metal, ambulances, heart massage and blood filtered thruogh her head. Off course she would forget the time if that happened!

She rode unconcentrated at her friend's house. It was a ride of thirty minutes. Her eyes shot, on her way there, to every ditch on her way. It was most probable that Marron would show up unexpectedly, neatly cycling on her right side, healthy and beautiful and happy. But that didn't happen. Yet, it was better to be doing something. Eighteen had to turn, steer and brake, her body was bussy. If fate was evil minded, she would fight. She would fight the approaching monster with feet and hands.

Bulma was home alone. Her son Trunks Vegeta, who they called Trunks for short, had just gotten his driver's license. He had spared every quarter he had in order to buy an old chevy.

'He practically lives in it', sighed Bulma worriedly. 'I hope in Dende's name dat he drives carefully. Bra went to the library. It closes at eight o'clock, so she'll be home any second, but she can take care of herself. Vegeta is gone, training. Dende help me, he's never at home.'

That last sentence was said with her back turned to Eighteen, while she was battling with her coat. When she turned around her smile was back in place.

'Come on Eighteen, let's go!'

Bulma was slender and slightly taller than Eighteen. At least five years older and with a cheerful nature. They were very close and Bulma had always been the one to take care of Eighteen. Eighteen was aloof, cold and standoffish. Bulma was witty, open and fast. She knew everything. Now she put on her role as support and refuge. She managed to keep her own worry in check by comforting her friend. Bulma got a capsule car from the garage and Eighteen got in. First, they rode to Mama Betty's Shop, where they exchanged a few words at the till. They looked around outside the Shop for a while. Looking for a sign that would show Marron had been there, even if Betty had said she hadn't. They rode further into the city. Walked a tour around the square and stared with fearful faces to all the other faces, all the people, but there was no sign of Marron. To be certain they rode passed the school of West City, where Marron went to the first grade, but the schoolyard looked empty and deserted. During the ride Bulma loaned her cellphone three times to Eighteen, she dialed her own number each time. Maybe Marron was waiting in her room. But the phone wasn't answered. The nightmare grew, sneaked up on them, gathered power. A bit and then it would raise itself high and wash over them like a wave. And it would cover everything in darkness. Eighteen felt it in her body, inside a battle was fought, her circulatory, her pulse, her breathing, everything was disrupted.

'Maybe she got a flat tire', Bulma said, 'and she asked somebody to help her and there is somebody standing with her and repairing her bike.'

Eighteen nodded quickly. That possibility hadn't come up in her yet. It comforted her. There were so many explanations, so many possibilities, and almost none were dangerous, she only didn't see them. She sat stiffly in the seat next to her friend and hoped that there was a big hole in Marron's wheel. That would explain everything. Then she started to panic, because that image scared her. That a car would stop for a little girl with a flat tire. Under the pretense of helping. A pretense! She felt another stab in her heart. Moreover, they would have spotted her by now, they had just ridden the way Marron would have followed. There were no shortcuts.

Eighteen stared straight in front of her. She didn't want to turn her head to the left, because there flowed the river, fast and grey. She wanted to go straight forward, as fast as possible, straight forward to the moment were everything was in order again.

They rode back home. There was nothing else that could be done. They only heared the growling from the motor of Bulma's car. They had muted the radio. They couldn't listen to music while Marron was gone. There was still little traffic. But soon they would pass a bizarre vehicle. They saw him from far away, first as something unrecognizable. The vehicle was part moped, part a sort of truck. It had three tires, the steering wheel of a moped and a bucket the size of a follower. The moped as well as the follower was painted in a coppergreen colour. The driver drove very slowly, but they could see he was watching the car, that he felt something approaching him from behind. He went to ride completely right to let them pass. His look was directed straight at the road.

'Sixteen', Bulma said. 'He's always on his way. Shall we ask him?'

'I thought he can't talk?' retorted Eighteen.

'That's only a rumour', Bulma sounded convinced. 'I think he can talk just fine. If he wants to.'

'Why do you think so?' asked Eighteen, doubting.

'They say it. They say he just doesn't want to.'

Eighteen couldn't imagine that somebody who could talk just didn't. She had never heared of it before. The man on the moped was nearing the thirties. He was wearing an old, brown, leather hat with earflaps and a windproof jacket which he hadn't buttoned. The tails were fluttering in the wind. When he felt the car next to him, he began to sway. He looked disapprovingly at them, but Bulma didn't waver. She waved her arm and motioned for him to stop. He did so, reluctantly. He didn't look straight at them. He only waited, still stairing straight in front of him, with his hands firmly around the handlebars. The earflaps hung down his cheeks like dogears. Bulma rolled down the window.

'We're looking for a girl!' she yelled.

The man pulled a disturbed face. He didn't get why she was yelling like that, there was nothing wrong with his ears.

'A girl of ten years, with blond hair. She has a yellow bike. You always ride around everywhere, have you seen her maybe?'

The man stared at the asphalt. His face was partially hidden by his hat. Eighteen Chestnut stared at the follower. It was covered with a black canvas. She had the vague idea something laid underneath it. Her thoughts went crazy. Underneath a similiar canvas there was enough room for a girl as well as her bike. Didn't he look slightly guilty? But she knew he always averted his face. She had seen him sometimes in the shop. He lived in his own world.

The idea that Marron was laying underneath the black cloth sounded absurd. I'm not myself at the moment, she thought.

'Have you seen her?' Bulma repeated. She has such an authoritative voice, Eighteen thought. So forceful. That's why people stopped and listened to her.

Finally he answered her stare, only for a moment. He had sharp, blue eyes. Did she see it right, were his eyes really darting back and forth fearfully? Eighteen bit her lip. This was the way he was, she knew that, he didn't look at people and didn't want to talk to them. It didn't mean anything. His voice was a bit raspy when he answered.

'No', he said.

Bulma held his stare. His blue eyes rolled away again. He put the moped in acceleration and let the motor roar. The gas was placed on the right side of the steering wheel. He liked to accelerate. Bulma put on her indicator and passed him by. But she kept watching him through her rearview mirror.

'Ha!' she called out. 'Everybody says he can't talk. What nonsense!'

it became almost unbearably quiet in the car. Now she was home, Eighteen thought. Betty from the Shop didn't remember it, but Marron had been there and had done her groceries. She's laying on the couch reading _Penny_ and chewing on Bugg, so that her cheeks are rounded. Everywhere lies candy wrappers. Her mouth smells sweet from the pink bubble gum.

But when they came home, de room was empty. Eighteen collapsed completely. She was one heap of misery.

'My God', she weeped. 'Now it's for real. Do you hear me, Bulma? Something happened!'

The sobs ended in a yell. Bulma walked over to the telephone.

Author's notes: So what do you think? Worth continueing?

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	2. Chapter 2

Author's notes: The next chapter's here! Like I told you: no special powers, no aliens, no weird things (e.g. three eyes), and ooc. Be warned.

Reviews:

Steveo: You're going to find out in this chapter.

Enjoy

Black Seconds

The disappearance of Marron Chestnut was registered at the emergency room at 20.35 pm. The woman who called introduced herself as Bulma Briefs. She tried hard to sound businesslike, because she was afraid they wouldn't take her call seriously if otherwise. But her voice had a hysteric tone. Deputy officer Yamcha jotted down what the woman told him, while conflicting feelings raised inside him. Marron Chestnut, a girl of ten years from West City was two hours late. It was clear that something had happened. But that didn't mean it had to be something terrible right away. Most of the time it happened to be something small. First poignant like a sting of the wasp, then the sweetest comfort of everything: mother's lap. He smiled, because he had seen it happen before. But at the same time he weaponed himself for what might still come.

Around 21.00 pm he steered his surveillance car on the lane of Eighteen Chestnut's house. She lived in the Capsiglass street, number 17, two kilometres outside the city. It was far enough to be rural, with some farmes and pastures, and big and small plots. The neighbourhood had its own little centre with a school, shops and a gas station. The house lay in the residential area. It was painted red and looked welcoming. A hedge of red cornel formed a dramatic sharp border around the garden. The grass showed yellowed spots thanks to the everlasting heat.

Eighteen stood in front of the window. When she saw the white car she started to get dizzy. She had gone too far, she had defied fate. With this, she admitted that something horrible must have happened. She shouldn't have done this. If she hadn't done this Marron would have come home by herself. She wasn't able to follow her own thougths, she wanted someone to take charge so badly, to decide for her. A couple of police agents were walking up to the door and Eighteen stared at the oldest of the two, a tall man of around thirty, with no hair. He moved slowly and cautious, like nothing could face him. He's exactly what I need, thought Eighteen. He's going to arrange this, because that's his job, he has done this before. It felt surreal to give him a hand. This isn't real, she thought, wake me up from this terrible dream. But she didn't wake.

Eighteen looked good, tall and firm, with blond hair that was cut short. She had a light skin and fine, fair eyebrows. Inspector Tien Shinhan looked at her with a steady gaze.

'Are you alone?' he asked.

'My friend will come back any moment. She called you. She had to inform her own children.'

Her voice sounded panicky. She looked at the two men, deputy officer Yamcha with his short black hair and Tien Shinhan with his bald head. She looked at them imploringly. After that she walked inside. She crossed her arms again and went to stand at the window. It was impossible to go and sit, she was forced to keep standing, to look at the road and the yellow bike when it finally came. Because now she would come, just as she had started this huge machine. She started to talk. Had the need to fill the emptiness with words to keep the images at a distance, they were so horrible.

'I live alone with her. We got her very late', she stuttered. 'I'm almost fifty. Her father has moved out eight years ago. He doesn't know yet. I don't dare to call him. There must be an explanation and I don't want him to worry needlessly.'

'So you don't think she might be with her father?' asked Tien.

'No', she answered, very sure of herself. 'Otherwise he would have called. He has a huge feeling of responsibility.'

'So, what concerns Marron you can discuss it with your ex-husband?'

'Absolutely!'

'Then I think you should call him', said Tien.

He said this because he also had a child of his own and he didn't want Marron's father to be excluded from this. Eighteen walked over to the phone with disfavour. It was quiet in the room when she dialed the number.

'He doesn't pick up', she told them, while she hung up.

'Leave a message', Tien said. 'If he has an answering machine.'

She nodded and dialed the number again. Her voice sounded a little shy because she had audience.

'Krillin', they heard her say. 'With Eighteen. I'm waiting for Marron, she should have been home ages ago. I just wanted to hear if she might be with you.' She paused a second and then started sobbing. 'Call me please! The police is here!'

She turned around. 'He's travelling a lot. He can be Dende knows where.'

'We need a good description of her', said Tien. 'And a picture. I'm sure you have one.'

Eighteen felt how strong he was. She thought it weird that he must have gone through the same situation before, multiple times. In other rooms, with other mothers. Most of all, she wanted to lean against him and never let go, but she didn't dare that. So she set her jaw firmly.

Tien called the number of the police station and ordered two surveillance cars to drive via the main road to the edge of West City. A girl of ten, on a yellow bike, heared Eighteen. And she thought it weird to hear him speak about Marron like that, it sounded like he was talking about a front wheel. Afterwards there was a flurry of voices and cars, a nightmarish scene that flickered before her eyes. Telephones that went over, short orders and strange faces. They wanted to see Marron's room. She didn't like that, because it reminded her of something. Things she had seen on the television, in police series. Rooms of young girls, glaringly empty. Slowly she walked up the stairs and opened the door to her bedroom. Tien and Yamcha hovered in the doorway, completely overwhelmed by the size of the room and the chaos inside. Animals. In every size, species and form. Made from every material thinkable. Glass and stone, earthenware and wood, plastic and plush. Horses and dogs. Birds and mouses, fish and snakes. They hung by thin wires from the ceiling, filled the whitewooden bed, were mounted on top of the bookcase and were being showed of in the window frame. Tien also saw immediately that all the books in the case were about animals. There hung pictures and posters of animals on the wall. The drapes were green and covered in seahorses.

'You can see for yourself what she's full of', said Eighteen.

She stood in the doorway, shaking. It was as if she was also seeing this for the first time, in all its vehemence. How many animals were in there? Hunderds?

Tien nodded. Yamcha was speechless. The room was unbelievably messy and much too full. They went back downstairs. In the living room Eighteen took down a picture frame. Tien took it from her. When he looked into the blue eyes it happened. Marron was immediately branded on his retina like a glowing fire. Children are cute, he thought, but this girl is charmed. Truly ready to be eaten. Like the girls described in fairytales. He thought of Redcape, Snowwhite and Cinderella. Big innocent eyes. Round, red cheeks. Slender and small. He looked at Eighteen Chestnut.

'You have searched for her? Along with your friend?'

'We have driven around for almost an hour', siad Eighteen. 'There was almost no traffic, not many people to ask. I called a few girlfriends of her and I also called Mama Betty's Shop. She hasn't been there. What do I have to do now?' She looked at him with burning eyes.

'You don't have to be alone', he said. 'Keep calm, sit down and wait for your friend. We are going to round up some people and then we'll look for her.'

Author's notes: So, good installment? Sorry if it's short, I thought it was good.

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	3. Chapter 3

Reviews: Steve: Thanks for the review.

Black Seconds

'Do you remember Mary Pickford?' he asked.

They were back in the car. From the mirror he saw the house of Eighteen slowly disappear. Her friend Bulma had returned. Yamcha looked at him with a dumbfounded look on his face. He was far too young to know the stars from the days of the dumb movies.

'Marron looks like her', Tien said.

Yamcha didn't ask for elaboration. He wanted a smoke, but it was forbidden to smoke in the surveillance car. That's why he searched his pockets for some candy and found a box of pastils.

'She would never step into a car of a stranger', he said thoughtfully.

'Every mother says that', Tien said. 'It depends on who you ask. Adults are a lot smarter than children, it's that simple.'

That answer didn't sit well with Yamcha. He wanted to believe that kids had an intuition that enabled them to tell danger a lot faster than adults. Just like dogs. They could smell it. However... dogs weren't especially smart. He started to get despondent of his thoughts. The pastil in his mouth had turned soft and he started to chew on it.

'But they step in when they know that stranger', he said aloud. 'And most of the time it is someone they know.'

'You talk as if we are dealing with a crime', said Tien. 'It is rather premature for that.'

'No,' Yamcha said hesitantly, 'I just try to prepare myself for it.'

Tien looked at him from the side. Yamcha was young and ambitious. Extravert and enthusiastic. His talent was well hidden behind his dark eyes and his black, wavy hair which gave him an innocent outlook. The people felt comfortable around Yamcha. They relaxed and talked, and that was exactly what he wanted. Tien drove the surveillance car at the permitted speed torough the landscape. He kept in constant contact with the patrols. They had nothing to report.

The dial pointed at sixty constantly and later on eighty. Their eyes searched almost automatically over the landscape in order to miss nothing. But they saw nothing out of the ordinary. No little girl with blonde hair, no yellow bike. Tien saw her face in front of her. The small mouth and the wavy curls. Then a couple of gruesome images entered his mind. No, he said it inside himself. It isn't that way, not this time. This girl is just coming home. They almost always come home, I have seen it happen before. And why in Dende's name do I love this work?

* * *

Eighteen sucked in a large quantity of air and started to breath irregularly. Bulma took her friend by the shoulders and spoke loudly and exaggeratedly clear to her.

'You have to breath calmly, Eighteen. Breath!'

She breathed in violently a couple of times, but nothing came out and the slender body on the couch fought to get her breathing rate under control again.

'What if Marron walks in and sees you like this!' Bulma yelled desperately, she didn't know what else to say. 'Do you hear me?' She started to shake her friend. Eighteen managed to finally breath normally again. Then she fell in a strange sort of apathy.

'Rest a bit', Bulma said imploringly. 'I have to call home now. Then you have to eat something. At least drink something.'

Eighteen shook her head. Vaguely she heared the voice of her friend on the other side of the room. A soft mumbling she couldn't understand. A bit later she was back.

'I have told Bra that she had to go to bed and lock the doors', Bulma told her.

When she said that, she immediately felt a huge fear. Bra was home alone. Then she realized her worries were misplaced. All words became dangerous, all the remarks explosive. She went to the kitchen. Eighteen heared the rinkling of glasses. A drawer was opened, bread, she thought. To have to eat now. She couldn't right now. She stared with painful eyes at the window. When the phone ringed she was so scared she yelled. Bulma stormed in.

'Shall I pick up?'

'No!' Eighteen snatched the receiver and yelled her name in the microphone. Then she collapsed. 'No, she isn't back yet', she cried. 'It's nearly half past eleven and she left at six. I can't take it anymore!'

Marron Chestnut's father became quiet on the other side of the phone.

'And the police?' he asked fearfully. 'Where are they?'

'They are all gone, but they are searching. They would call the Red Cross and round up some volunteers, but they haven't called anymore! They can't find her!'

Bulma waited near the kitchen door. The gravity of the situation hit them simultaniously. It was dark outside, almost night. Marron was out there somewhere, unable to come back home. Eighteen couldn't talk. Food was unthinkable. Not moving, not going anywhere. Only waiting, the two of them, with their arms wrapped tightly around each other and the fear like a raging storm in their ears.

Author's notes: Review.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's notes: I'm back with another chapter! Enjoy!

Reviews:

Short-pants: thanks and I'm glad you like it. Keep reviewing!

Black Seconds

'What is it with children and candy', said Tien. 'They always need to have candy. Do all kids have a too low blood sugar level?'

Yamcha went to sit on the desk. 'Marron went to buy a magazine', he shot back.

'And for the exchange of the money she bought candy', Tien said. 'Bugg. What is that anyway?'

'Bubble gum.' Yamcha explained.

Two hours of nothing, Tien thought, while he stared at his watch. They were, after all, dealing with a ten year old. She could talk and ask questions. But it was nearly one o'clock. Outside was a black September night and Marron had been gone for more than seven hours. Then he heard a weak noise. He waited a moment, wondering, to listen. The noise grew stronger. Rain, he thought. A strong downfall. It rattled against the windows and washed away the dust and filth of the glass. He had yearned for rain. Everything was as dry as cork. But now it came on a bad moment. He felt the pain in his body, a mixture of restlessness and the need to do something. He didn't want to sit around with a bunch of papers, he wanted to go outside, to the dark and search for Marron. The bike, he thought suddenly. Bright yellow and very new. It hadn't been found yet.

'She could have fallen with her bike', Yamcha said. 'Maybe she's lying unconscious in a ditch. It has happened before. Or she could have met someone, who managed to charm her completely. A thoughtless person but one with the heart on the right place. Like Buu. Do you rememeber Buu?'

Tien nodded. 'He had rabbits. And with those he could lure in little girls.'

'And Marron adores animals', Yamcha said, thinking about it. 'But she can also have ran away from home because of something that she couldn't discuss with her mother. Maybe she's lying somewhere in a shed, sleeping. Determined to punish her mother for something.'

'They had had no fight', Tien retorted.

'Her father could be involved', Yamcha went on. 'It happens. A teacher or another adult that she knows could have picked her up. For reasons we don't know. Maybe she got some food and a warm bed somewhere. People sometimes do the weirdest things', he said. 'We always almost immediately think the worst because we're in this job for so long already.'

Yamcha loosened a button of his dress shirt. The silence in Tien's shadowy room was tense.

'We have a case,' he concluded.

'Probably,' Tien nodded. 'But we can't do much. We have to wait. Till she shows up, in whichever state.'

Yamcha jumped from the desk and walked over to the window.

'Has Lunch left?' he asked, with his back to Tien. The asphalt of the parking terrain in front of the Palace of Justice, where the police bureau was stationed, was glinstening black and oily in the rain.

'Yes, this morning. She's gone for four months.' Tien said.

Yamcha nodded. 'Research?'

'She's going in depth at why some people are so short,' Tien smiled.

'Right,' Yamcha snickered. 'Off course you can't help her with that, considering your two metres of length.'

Tien shook his head. 'One theory claims that they don't want to grow,' he said, 'That some people simply refuse to grow up.'

'That's a joke, right?'

Yamcha turned around and looked at his boss with two large round eyes.

'No, no. I'm not joking. Sometimes things have a very simple explanation. More simple than we think. At least, that's what Lunch says.' He stared out of the window, suddenly sad.

'I don't like it at all that it's raining.' He said.

* * *

Suddenly the bell rang shrill throughout the house. Eighteen looked at her friend wild-eyed, her eyes shone with an almost metallic light in her fear. It was late. Fear and hope fought a fierce battle in her body.

'I'll open!' Bulma said, who stormed out of the room. She shivered as she pushed the doorhandle down. On the sidewalk stood Marron's father.

'Krillin,' she said softly.

She stared at him and stepped back a little.

'Has she been found already?' he asked.

His face was wrinkled with worry.

'No. We are waiting.'

'I'll stay here tonight,' Krillin said resolutely. 'I can sleep on the couch.'

A surprising stubborness sounded through his voice. Bulma walked slowly backwards, into the hallway. Eighteen heard his voice and braced herself. She felt so much. Relief and anger at the same time. Now he entered the room. A small and thin man with no hair. She recognised his old grey coat and a sweater she had once knitted for him. It was difficult to meet his gaze. She wasn't strong enough to face his despair, she had only enough room for her own desperation.

'Go to bed, Eighteen,' he said. 'I'll sit by the phone. Did you eat something?'

He pulled of his coat and hung it across the back of a chair. Like he was right at home. He had lived in this house for years.  
Bulma stood in a corner. She had the feeling she was interrupting.

'Then I'll go,' she said with a downcast gaze. 'But I want you to call if something happens, Krillin.'

Suddenly she didn't know how fast she had to get away from there. She stroked Eighteen's back, ripped her coat of the hanger and ran outside. She drove as fast as she could homewards. The thoughts were racing through her head.

It was raining hard, de wipers were surfing fast over the windshield. She became depressed by her own cowardice. Her relief had been so great when she had seen Krillin on the sidewalk and had known she would be able to leave. She had felt a bottomless, creepy fear the whole night long. But she couldn't submit to it. She had to be stronger than Eighteen. Now that Krillin was there with her, the fear rose suddenly and almost took her breath away. She didn't need to be there, for the worst. She didn't need to answer that definitive phonecall, that horrible message. 'We've found her.' Now Krillin would have to answer that. I'm a coward, she thought, while she wiped away her tears.

* * *

She parked in front of the double garage and saw Trunks wasn't home yet. She went inside and ran up the stairs. Bra was sleeping. She stood there for a while, watching her daughter's round cheeks. They were warm and red. Afterwards, she went inside the room to sit at the window and waited for her son. Like her friend had been waiting all those hours on Marron, she realised herself. He was later than usual. She felt a twinge of that same fear, but she hushed herself with the idea that Trunks was an adult. Imagine to be sitting like that, she thought, and that no one showed up. It was incomprehensible. Suppose that it was Bra who disappeared like that? Suppose that the tires of the Opel of her son wouldn't sound anymore? She tried to imagine that she would be waiting hour after hour. That the sound of tires, for which she was waiting, didn't resound. That she, after a while, started waiting for another sound, the ringing of the phone. She called the number of his cellphone, but it was turned off. When he finally returned home, it felt weird to her that he didn't pop his head round the corner but instead immediately walked to his room. He must have seen that the light was on through the window and must have known she was still awake. She stayed there, thinking for a few minutes. She didn't want to go and tell him. Then she went after him. Kept waiting in the doorway of his room. He had turned on his computer. Sat right there with an averted head and hunched shoulders. From his whole demeanour you could see he was pissed of.

'What's the matter?' she asked quickly. 'You're very late.'

He grumbled something under his breath. Then slammed his fist on the table.

'I have a dent in that stupid car,' he said sulky.

Bulma thought about that answer. She thought about everything that had happened and looked at his angry back. Suddenly she got angry. It streamed out and she couldn't stop it.

'Fine,' she said, 'then you have a dent in your car. Your father and I don't have the money to fix it, so you'll have to keep driving around with the dent or save the money yourself to pay the bill!'

She almost forgot to breath. Her son became unsure, but didn't turn around.

'I know that,' he said moody.

A maze appeared on his computer screen. A cat sneaked down through the small path. Her son followed him with his eyes and turned on the sound. Inside the maze a mouse scittered about.

'It just sucks,' he suddenly spoke up.

'I don't want to talk about it right now,' Bulma yelled. 'Something terrible happened. Marron has disappeared!'

A surprised shock went through her son. He kept staring at the screen. From the boxes a vague noise could be heard.

'Disappeared?' he asked, thunderstruck, while he turned around slowly.

'Yes, Marron,' she said. 'She went to the Shop to buy something around six o'clock. I've been at Eighteen the whole night. They haven't found her nor her bike.'

'They?'

'The police!'

'Where did they search?' he asked, while staring at her with big eyes.

'Where they searched? Everywhere off course. She hasn't been at the Shop.'

Bulma had to find support from the wall. The seriousness of the situation returned to her again. Her son was still tinkering with the computer and maneuvered the hunting cat inside a dead end. The mouse stood still, awaiting the next step.

'So that dent of yours is nothing you have to worry about,' she said, scared. 'It's only a dent in an old car that can easily be fixed. I hope you can see it isn't that important.'

He slowly nodded. She heard him breath, tense.

'How did it happen?' she asked, suddenly compassionate. 'Did you get hurt?'

He shook his head. Bulma felt with him. It was a defeat to get a dent in your car. He was young and thought he could do everything and this was a serious blow to his pride. She understood, but she didn't want to be a mother hen. She wanted him to grow up.

'I clapped against the guardrail,' he said with a sigh.

'O,' she said. 'Where?'

'At the city bridge. In the centre.'

'Was Sharpener there?' she asked.

'No, not then.'

'Do I have to go down to have a look at it?' she asked.

'No, don't bother,' he said, tiredly. 'I have discussed it with Yajirobi. He's going to help getting it fixed. I don't have the money, but he said the payment could wait.'

'Yajirobi?' Bulma asked, incredulous. 'Are you still talking to him? I though you would go to Sharpener?'

'Yeah,' Trunks said. 'But Yajirobi knows cars. That's why I went to him. Yajirobi has the garage and the tools, something which Sharpener doesn't have.'

He started to move the cat around again. Why isn't he looking at me, Bulma thought. Then suddenly, a horrible thought popped up.

'Trunks,' she said breathless. 'You didn't drink, did you?'

His chair turned around and he stared at her with an angry glare.

'Are you crazy! I don't drive when I'm drunk. You think I would drive then?' He was sincerely insulted and she was ashamed. His face was as white as a sheet. His short hair was in disarray and in the middle of this whole mess the thought struk Bulma that it needed to be washed.

She kept standing in the doorway, undecisive. She couldn't find rest, she wasn't tired, listened the whole time for the phone. Tried to feel the fear that would attack her if he did ring for real. Thought of the moment when she would pick up the phone and waited, standing on the outer edge of the cliff. She would, or fall into the depths, or be pulled to safety by a happy ending. Because this has to have a happy ending, she couldn't imagine another version, not here, not in this peaceful village, not with Marron.

'I have to go to Eighteen in the morning,' she said. 'You have to help Bra get her breakfast ready and the like. I want you to bring her to the school bus. Not only bringing her to it,' she added, 'you have to wait till she's inside. Do you hear me? I have to be with Eighteen in case something happens. Krillin is there now,' she said softly.

She sighed desperate and asked her son to go to sleep. Left him alone and went outside. It was a sudden inspiration. She opened the door of the garage. Surprised she saw that her son had thrown a big cloth over the Opel. He never did that. He probably couldn't bare to see it, she thought. Childish, really. She switched on the light. Lifted the cloth. On the front right side she found what she had been looking for. A dent, a broken lamp and some laquer. A couple of long, greywhite scratches. She shook her head and relaid the cloth. Walked into the garden. Stood there for a moment, thinking. Felt the rain in her neck, wet and cold. She threw a fast look at the window of her son's room. There she saw his pale face, partially hidden behind the curtains.

Author's notes: So what do you think? Review.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's notes: So here's another chapter. Enjoy!

Reviews:

DragonBallPrincess: Thanks for the review! And you're right, there were a few mistakes, I went back and corrected them:)  
Thanks for pointing them out to me!

Black Seconds 

2 september.

Eighteen woke up sharply. She raised herself halfway from the bed. A fraction of a second everything seemed like before. She was Eighteen and a new day waited for her.  
Then she rememberd everything. Reality pushed her back down on the matress. On that moment she heard the slamming of a car door and soft, mumbling voices. A couple of people were heading towards the house. She lay there, hands sweating and listening. She heard how careful they walked. No hasty footsteps, no excited voices. She kept reclining, completely cramped, on her bed. That was how she wanted to keep reclining until Marron returned home. She didn't want to move, eat nor drink. If she kept lying long enough, the miracle would happen. And if it didn't happen, she would let herself sink through the matress. She would disappear in the stuffing. Others could sleep upon her, they could walk in and out of the room, she wouldn't pay them attention. Wouldn't feel anything anymore, never.  
She heard Krillin's voice. Feet that shuffled slowly on the floor. The door that was closed softly. If the worst thinkable had happened, Krillin could stand in her doorway every given moment. He wouldn't utter a sound, would only stare at her, with a soundless yell on his lips. His eyes, the big brown eyes she had loved would grow dark. And she would raise herself and scream. So that all the windows would shatter, so hard that everybody would hear it and so that the earth would stop turning. All the people on the street would stay to listen, baffled. They would feel the earth move beneath their feet, would feel that everything was over. But the seconds ticked by and he didn't appear. In the room downstairs the mumbling hadn't ceased. That means they haven't found her yet, not dead but also not alive, Eighteen thought. The hope was so frail. She scrabbled with her fingers over the duvet in order to grab it and never let go.

Krillin Chestnut left Tien and Yamcha in the living room.  
'Eighteen is sleeping,' he said. He searched his pocket for his glasses. The glasses weren't completely clean. Judging from his clothes you could definitely see that he had slept on the couch. If he had slept.

'What do we do now?' he asked nervously. 'You haven't found her bike either yet?'

'No,' Tien said.

Yamcha Westwood listened intently. His black eyes were deeply concentrated. While Tien spoke, he studied Chestnut detailed. Meanwhile he made some notes.

'What does that mean?'

'We don't know,' Tien said.

Krillin rubbed his forehead. He started to grow bald already. His eyes were big, like those of Marron and his mouth was quite small. He seemed to be younger than Eighteen, according to her age, frail, almost feminine.

'But what do you think?'

Tien took his time answering. 'We think nothing', he said simply. 'We search.'

They stared at each other. Tien had to confirm the seriousness of the case to Marron's father. He needed that, that's why he was pushing so hard.

'I worry,' Tien said. 'I can't deny that.'

His voice sounded as solid as a mountain. His own serenity brought him sometimes close to despair, but he had to. He had to support the Chestnuts.  
Marron's father nodded. He had gotten what he had asked for.

'But what happens now?' he asked then, with a sudden dimmed voice. 'What are you doing to find her?'

'We have plotted the route that Marron would cycle,' Tien said. 'And we have to find every person who could have been around there during the time. We ask people to call us and they do that. Everybody who has seen something of importance will be heard and everything will be noted. This works for automobilists, cyclists and pedestrians. We're hoping for that one golden tip that will bring us further in the investigation.'

'Further than what?' Krillin asked feebly.

He dimmed his voice, out of fear that Eighteen would hear it. 'If a child disappears in this manner,' he continued, 'then it is clear that somebody took her. To use her. For... you know... And that he has dumped her somewhere, so she can't talk. That's what I am afraid for!' he whispered. 'I don't see any other explanation.'

He burried his face in his hands. 'How many people have called? Has somebody called anyway?'

'Unfortunately we have only had few tips,' Tien admitted. 'It was quiet on the street when Marron left home. And it's about a route of several miles. But something always needs some time. At the moment we know that Marron was seen from the Ginger Route. Another, somewhat unsure observation has happened in Madseberg.'

Suddenly Krillin jumped up from his chair. 'My Dende. This is too much!'

Tien tried to contain Krillin's panick by staying calm himself. Krillin fell down in the chair again.

'Eighteen says that Marron sticks to the rules,' Tien said. 'Such rules that children have to keep to in accordance to stangers in strange cars. What's your opinion about that?'

Krillin thought about it. 'Marron is very open,' he said. 'Curious and happy. And she thinks the best of everybody. So when she would meet someone who is nice to her and promises her something, yeah, I wouldn't know.'

He was talking nervously. He put his glasses off and on again, couldn't keep his hands still.

Tien thought about all the pedophilic men he had encountered in his years. Most of the time, they could entertain a kid very well, they were caring, sympathetic and friendly. They knew the art of seduction and they knew how to pick the most naive children out of the crowd. They have a good nose for that, Tien thought.

'She could have left out of free will with someone?' he asked.

'Yes, I suppose,' Krillin said helplessly. 'Everything is possible. Such a question, it's impossible to answer a yes or a no.'

Tien knew Krillin was right. Yamcha took the lead of the conversation.

'Is she interested in boys?' he asked carefully.

Krillin shook his head. 'She's only ten. But I think that soon she'll start to develop and interest, maybe. Although I think it's still early for that.'

'And a diary? Does she have that?'

'You have to ask Eighteen that, later,' he said. 'I don't want to wake her up right now.'

'You and Eighteen,' Tien spoke carefully, 'you can get along fine?'

Krillin nodded. 'Yes, absolutely!'

'Whe she called yesterday she couldn't get a hang of you. Where were you yesterday?'

Krillin blinked his eyes in rapid succesion. 'At my work. I often put off my mobile to work quietly.'

'You work in shifts,' Tien said, asked.

'No. But I don't have a family anymore. Like before, I mean. I work a lot. Spending a lot of my time at work. I even sleep there sometimes,' he said.

'What do you do for work?'

'I'm in the advertising. Text and lay-out. The bureau is called Dragonheart,' he added. 'If you need to know that.'

Yamcha wrote down the adress and phone number. Krillin started to talk about his work. He avoided the worries of the moment by seeking refuge in his profession and he relaxed a bit. His face got a boyish outlook. He shone with the sudden charm of somebody who loves his work and was allowed to talk about it.

'Eighteen had been dismissed,' he said. 'Because of the migraine. So I support financially, for her and Marron.' His face clouded over again, because he didn't know what so say more and because his daughter was back in his thoughts.

'Marron is very precocious,' he suddenly said.

'Precocious?' Tien asked. 'In which way?'

'Energetic. Diligent. She scared for nothing. She very self assured,' he admitted. 'And she thinks highly of herself. It would never enter her mind that someone she meets might not mean the best for her. Because she's used to that.'

Krillin laid his glasses on the table. Finally it kept lying there. 'Can I do something?'

'we are going to contact as many people as we can in order to search the surroundings,' Tien said. 'There will be enough people ready to do that. The whole neighbourhood knows about Marron's disappearance. They will be asissted by proffesionals and will get clear instructions on how they have to search.'

'And the river?' Krillin asked softly. He didn't want to say it out loud.

'We're considering to dredge,' Tien said. 'But first we are searching the surrounding area and every house that lays next to the route to Mama Betty's Shop will be visited by our people.'

'I want to help searching,' Krillin said.

'You'll be notified,' Tien said. 'About where you will need to admit yourself. Probably it will be on the school yard. Take care fo Eighteen, meanwhile.'

Krillin walked them to the door. He looked at them from the sidewalk. Put his hands on the railing and leaned over it. His eyes searched the landscape, looking for Marron.

'She's been gone a whole seventeen hours,' he moaned. 'It's too late, and you know that!'

He hid his face in his hands and kept standing there, trembling. Tien came back. He grabbed Krillin's arm en pressed it hard. He couldn't do any more. Afterwards he walked to the car. He had the feeling he turned his back on a drowning man.

Author's notes: Review.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's notes: So here I am again with more reading pleasure. I'm currently only concentrating on this story because I don't have the inspiration to write for the other multi-chaps I have going.

Reviews:

Short-pants: Thanks for the review! Enjoy this chapter.

Black Seconds 6

A big group of volunteers had assembled at the school. A whole night had passed and the seriousness could be read of off everyone's face. It was still raining, but not as hard as before. The group consisted of people from the Red Cross, teachers and students from the school, people from the gym and other organisations. Some were just people from the neighbourhood, who had answered the call for help. They had left their houses and had ventured in the clammy outside world, hoping to be of any help. There were a lot of youngsters and surprisingly many boys and men. A couple of small kids also announced to help, but they were sent home. Number Sixteen had seen the big tumult of people, watching from a safe distance on his green three wheeler that he had parked underneath the overhang. Nobody asked him if he was also there to help searching. He didn't want to be asked either way. He looked at the dogs that some had brought with them. If one of those beasts ripped itself loose, he would jump on his three wheeler and race out of there. He didn't like dogs.

The volunteers studied maps and listened to the instructions of the police, who explained how they had to move across the terrain. How close to each other they had to walk, what they should search for. That it was important to stay focused the whole time. Don't talk too much. One group would be send to the waterfall, another would search aside the riverbanks. A couple of groups were send out onto the fields, others went in the forest and some to the hill above the city.

Yamcha Westwood gave them some last clues.

'Remember, Marron is very small, she doesn't need a lot of space.'

They nodded seriously. Yamcha stared at them and kept his opinion to himself. He kind of knew what went through their heads. There were many and often conflicting things. Some people had come out of despair, because they had kids of their own and couldn't sit in front of the television so passively. Some had come solely for the sensation and hoped to be the ones that found Marron. They tried to imagine how it would be to find her dead, or how it would be to stand in the spotlight, and they dreamed that they would find her healthy and well. To be able to give a shout in order to bring the good news across to the others. To, maybe, lift her up and walk to the others with her in their arms. They were scared, because less than a handfull had only ever seen a dead body and almost everybody thought that Marron was dead for sure. They were having trouble with their thoughts and scuffed the asphalt impatiently with their feet. Some carried a backpack with a thermos inside. But all of them had the vision of a hawk, or so they thought. They reminded Yamcha about many other searches, where a lot of people had walked passed the missing person time and again.  
Krillin Chestnut was present. Because he had lived in West City eight years ago, there weren't many that recognised him and that was a relief to him. His brothers, Kuri and Kran, were also there, as well as Bulma's son Trunks. It was a relief when the sign was given. Hundred and fifty people left the school yard in small groups. Soft murmurs were heard all around. For many of them this was a strange expirience. To always look toward the ground, to see all the straws, all the roots and branches, all the irregularities in the asphalt, all the garbage in the ditches, there were so many things. The group that had to search the riverbanks kept throwing glances at the rapid stream of water. Small bushes and other vegetation with low branches were elevated. Trenches were investigated. And off course they found things. A broken pushcart. A rotten boot. On the riverbanks there was a abundance of empty beer bottles. Now and then they took a short break.  
One of the groups encountered a little shed that had collapsed almost completely. A wonderful hinding place, they thought, while they stood in front of the humble building. Moreover, it lay close to the road, not far from where she lived. Involuntarily they sniffed the air. A man crouched and crept into the opening, a small crack in the rotten wooden beams. He asked for a lamp, that was given to him. The beam searched the dusky space. His heart pounded so wildly that he could feel it in his temple. The rest of the group waited. A couple of long seconds not a sound came out of the shed. Then his feet reappeared, while he crawled outside backwards.

'Only a bunch of junk,' he reported.

'You have lifted things, right?' someone asked. 'She could lie underneath something. Boards or something.'

'She isn't there,' the man answered, who tiredly wiped his face.

'But they said that you can easily overlook things. Shall we look again?' He didn't give up.

The man who had stuck his head into the clammy dusk in order to find a dead girl's body and hand't found it, just looked at him.

'You think I haven't searched good enough?' he asked.

'No, no. Don't get this wrong. It's only to be sure. We don't want to be people who have walked past it just like that, we want to do this right. Right?'

He nodded. The other crawled through the crack inside and looked around very carefully. He had put his hope on this very much. That you can hope so much, he thought, while he lay on the clammy floor and felt the cold creep into his pants. Hoping that she lay here. Because if she lay here, she would be dead for sure. But we don't hope for her to be dead, right? We are only realistic. We help. He crawled back outside.

'Empty,' he said. 'Thank Dende.'

He let the air escape his lungs. The group walked on.

Author's notes: They are finally searching! Will they find her?

Review


	7. Chapter 7

Author's notes: So I'm back with another chapter. Enjoy.

reviews:

MangekyoMasta510: Thanks for the review. And I guess the subject isn't all that popular.

Black Seconds 

Yajirobi didn't help with the search. He sat on the ground in his garage, with a book in his lap. The cold of the cement crept through the seat of his pants. Trunks sat on the workbench against the wall, looking at Yajirobi. His clothes were damp after walking in the drizzle for hours. The search party had not produced anything. Now he looked at his car. From the place where he sat he couldn't see mutilated mud fender. He could imagine that it had never happened, that it had only been a bad dream.

'How was it?' Yajirobi asked, without looking at him. Trunks thought about that question for a fairly long time.

'Creepy,' he said. 'To walk and search like that. A lot of strangers. They search everywhere. In all the corners and creaks.'

'Will they search on tomorrow?' Yajirobi asked.

'They say they'll continue for days.'

He looked at his older friend. Yajirobe is really fat, he thought. He had a fat face with a double chin and broad shoulders. His knees could clearly be seen through his nylon overall. Now he rubbed some filth from his cheek with a finger, while he tried to comprehend the text and pictures about damage, repairing and painting of cars. The book was old and had been used a lot. The pages were littered with oil spots. A couple of pages were torn and had been repaired, makeshift, with some tape. He studied the picture of a fender, the right side, like Trunks' car.

'We have to scrub first,' Yajirobi decided. 'We need two sorts of sandpaper, fine and coarse.' He gazed at the book. 'Number 180 and number 360. The fender must first be scrubbed with dry sandpaper, and afterwards with wet. We need a sanding cork and filler,' he said. 'A rust converter. Degreasing agent. Are you listening, Trunks?'

Trunks nodded. In reality he was far away with his thoughts. Yajirobe read on.

'We need to scrub a piece around the damage. It says here: _Start in the middle of the damaged spot and work in circulatory moves towards the outside._ Get something to write on. You have to buy the material. First we need to get the fender off the car.'

'Yes, I can go shopping,' said Trunks. 'but I don't have any money.'

Yajirobi looked up. 'I'll lend it to you. You won't be going to school for ever, will you? Sooner or later you'll start to earn money on your own.'

He looked back in the book. 'We are also missing some tools. I'll try to borrow it from someone.'

He put the book away, stood upright and walked over to the car. He bend over the fender, legs spread, with hands on his hips. With a profesional face he studied the damage. His shoulders were bend like two sails, ready to set to work.

'Come on Trunks. We'll start!'

Trunks heard the rustling of the nylon overall and a whining sound from the metal of the car. In between he heard sighing and wheezing. A fifteen year Opel Ascona didn't fall apart without a fight.

'I know somebody who works at the Shell-station,' Yajirobi wheezed. 'Juunana. He'll borrow me what we need.'

Yajirobi also knew a lot of people, Trunks thought.

'Damn it Yajirobi,' he said relieved. 'If you can manage this, I'll owe you big time.'

'Indeed,' Yajirobi said with a smile. His eyes were alight. 'But then you need to lighten up a bit. It will be fine. I'm sure of it.'

He went on with the wiggling and bending of the metal. A vein in his neck swelled.

'No, shit, I'll have to crawl underneath.'

He crawled all the way underneath the car. His short, stubby fingers appeared from underneath the intrusion.

'I actually don't understand it,' Trunks said. 'I don't understand at all. How could it have happened?'

He really hated what had happened. His cheeks started to get flushed because of it.

'Relax, buddy,' Yajirobi said easily. 'Like said before: it will be fine.' Then he thought of something. 'How did your mother react?'

Trunks moaned. 'Not so well. That she won't pay for it. That she doens't like the fact that I spent time here. But she's more concerned with the other thing, you know what...'

'Yes, off course. No, I'm not exactly the ideal son in law, I have always known that,' Yajirobi grinned. 'But you are an adult, damn it. You have to decide for yourself with who you associate.'

'That's what I said to her,' Trunks lied. 'Say,' he thought about it, 'should we also check the brakes?'

'Stop it, alright!' Yajirobi scolded him. 'The brakes are fine. Now you have to help me. The fender has to go, but it's stuck. Hold it for me!'

Trunks jumped off the workbench. He tried to stay calm. It was a relief that Yajirobi arranged everything. The role of assistant was fine for him. But sometimes he had the feeling that he was kept underneath the thumb of his older and more venturous friend. When Trunks had finally gotten his driver's license, after failing for the first test and had had to endure many weeks of pestering, he had gotten the feeling that they were equivalent. He could drive on his own. Yajirobi had also been the one that had searched the papers for a reasonable car that fitted in Trunks' budget. His search had saved Trunks at least fivehundred dollars.

'An Opel is safe,' Yajirobi had said with full conviction. 'A solid engine, especially the older models. Don't care too much about the colour. Don't be too picky. If you find an orange Opel in good state, then you take that one.'

But the Opel they had found had been black. Even the paintwork was pretty well done. Trunks had been on cloud nine. He couldn't loiter around anymore, he had to drive continously.

'And the police?' Yajirobi asked carefully. 'They will visit everybody around here because of the missing girl, right?'

'Yes.'

'Have they spoken to you already?'

'No way,' Trunks yelled. He let the fender go for a moment, which caused Yajirobi's finger to be stuck.

'Watch out, man! You have to hold it while I do my job!'

Trunks held onto the fender with all his might. His knuckles turned white.

'With such a case, with a little girl and all,' Wheezed Yajirobi from underneath the car. 'they pull out every stop. Maybe they have even interrogated her father. Have they?'

'No idea,' Trunks mumbled.

'But they ask a lot about relations, family and friends,' Yajirobi said. 'Maybe they'll ask you?'

Trunks nodded. He felt like a doll, while he listened to the stream of words. On one side it worked relaxing, but on the other side he started to get nervous.

'The fact that you're the son of a close friend of the family, it is taxing on it's own already,' Yajirobi said. He had finally stood up. The fender was loose. 'Especially when she isn't found,' he said. 'If they never dig up the truth. Something like this will make people peek at each other for generations to come. You know that there was a murder here about thirty years ago?'

Trunks shook his head in denial.

'I do. A boy who had raped and killed a sixteen year old girl. The families still live here. You can see it on their faces.'

'What do you see?' Trunks asked. He became more high-strung as the conversation went on.

'That they are thinking about it the whole time. That they realise that everybody knows who they are. They walk with their noses downward. That sort of stuff.' He wiped a drip of snot from his nose. 'The mother of the boy who has done it, is almost seventy. And you can see it from miles away.'

'I don't,' Trunks said. 'I don't even know who they are.'

He wanted his friend to shut up. All the talking about death and corruption was really bothering him. The only thing he was interested in, was his car. That it turned out whole again. Whole and shining and without scratches, like he was before.

* * *

She know she's pretty, Tien thought melancholy. He held Marron's picture in his hand. He had the idea that he could hear them all, a repeating chorus, of aunts and uncles, neighbours and friends. 'O, what a cute child!' He remembered his own aunts, when they pinched his cheeks, as if he was a young puppy of something that couldn't talk back. But I was, he thought. A thin, shy boy with legs too long. He kept gazing at the photograph. For years Marron has seen her reflection in other's eyes and had seen her own beauty. Because of that she had become a self-assured child, a child that was used to be worshipped, and maybe be envied. Used to get her own way, around her friends and her parents. However... Eighteen seemed stern and resolute, Marron had had clear rules. And she had always kept herself to them. Who had she met that she had thrown away the warnings of her mother? With what had she been lured? Or had she just been knocked unconscious and thrown in a car?

Charming and friendly, he thought. That combination didn't sit right with him. It made her vulnerable. It was impossible to look in the blue eyes without melting. He tried to connect those three things. Warm feelings for a charming child, afterwards the lust and in the end the destruction. He could imagine the first two. Even the moment of lust he could understand. The innocence, the weakness of a child. The smooth, soft, pure, that smelled so good, that shuddered and wept. That could make you strong, that could make you take something you thought was your right, only because you were an adult. But to take the life from a slender child by hitting ot choking, he couldn't comprehend that. All that panicky, struggling life that seeped away so slowly from your fingers. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. That's why he dialled the number of Lunch's hotel in New York. She wasn't there.

It was late in the evening. The city lay there, glowing like a dimmed campfire between the blue black hills. He could go home and drink a glass of whisky. Porbably he could also go to sleep, without trouble. The fact that he could go to bed while Marron had disappeared in this deep darkness, while Eighteen was waiting with teary eyes, bothered him. He would prefer to go outside. Walk through the streets with his senses alert. Outside, where Marron was. The patrols still hadn't had anyhting new to report.

He jumped when he heard a knocking on his door. Yamcha Westwood stuck his head around the corner.

'Aren't you going home?' Yamacha asked. 'What are you still doing here so late?'

'The same as you, I assume. Fiddling around.'

Yamcha let his eyes stray over his boss' office. Underneath Tien's desk lamp stood a small statue of clay. It resembled a policeagent in a blue uniform, made by Tien's grandson. Yamcha picked up the figurine and inspected it.

'It's starting to grow moldy,' he said. 'Did you know that?'

Tien acted as if he hadn't heard it. It wouldn't occur to him to throw the figurine away. Yes, it was indeed looking a little moldy, but at least it didn't stink yet.

'Can I smoke out of the window?' Yamcha asked.

He waited patiently on an answer, sigaret in hand. After a small nod he went to sit on the window sill. He fiddled a bit with the heavy window.

'Disappeared without a trace,' he stated, while the smoke into the septembre night. 'They haven't even found a hair pin.'

'She didn't wear anything that she could have lost,' Tien said. 'No watch, no bracelet or necklace. But for one thing I am truly happy.'

'Really?' Yamcha said somberly.

'That we haven't found bloodied clothing. No lost kid's shoe somewhere at the side of the road, not her bike that was thrown in a ditch. I like the fact that everything is gone.'

'Why?' Yamcha asked befuddled.

'I don't know,' Tien admitted.

'It only means he's very careful,' Yamcha said. 'That doesn't really make me happy.'

He inhaled deeply. 'This waiting,' he said, 'is a test.'

'Especially for Krillin and Eighteen Chestnut,' Tien remarked dryly.

Yamcha stayed quiet. Was that an admonishment? He blew the smoke through the open window, but some drifted inside the dim room. When he had finished his sigaret he held the glowing stub underneath the faucet of the sink.

'Shall we go home?'

Tien nodded and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair.

'What's your opinion about the papers?' asked Yamcha a while later. They stood outside on the parking area. They both jingled their keys.

'The journalists are fine,' Tien thought. 'If you look at the facts they are writing about. But there is also something as a lay-out. And press photographers, they do have a special feeling form dramatics.'

Yamcha thought about the pictures in the papers of that day. The picture of Marron, the picture of the same bike, a yellow Nakamura, and the picture of a similiar jogging suit she had had on. 'This is where Marron had went to'. Dotted lines. An enlarged picture of Mama Betty's Shop.

' They have started a serial,' Tien said. 'I hope there won't be too many episodes.'

With a nod they said goodbye to each other. Once home Tien walked to the kitchen to grab the pack of dry dog food. The dog, Chaozu, who had laid on the floor waiting on his master moved very carefully. But when he heard the food fall into his metal bin he stood up. Slowly he scrambled toward the kitchen. The dog, a Leonberger, was already so old that it went against all statistics. He stared at Tien with a black, uncomprehendable look. Tien had trouble meeting his gaze. He knew the dog was way too old, that he should let him sleep in. Soon, he thought. Not yet. I'll wait 'till Lunch is back. He cut a slice of his bread and put a piece of sausage on it. Afterwards he grabbed a tube of mayonnaise from the frigde. He stood there, contemplating the pros and cons. When he screwed the lid of off the tube, a strange thought went through his head. He could wring out an eight of mayonnaise on his sandwich and eat it afterwards. While for Eighteen Chestnut, breathing was already an enormous task.

Author's notes: Not much to say. Just, you guys think it's going too slow? Or is the pace fine?

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	8. Chapter 8

Author's notes: So little reviewers. But for those that do review: lots of hugs and thanks!

Reviewers:

Sergeant Daniel: Interesting theory you've got going there. Not even halfway and we already ahve a suspect!

Black Seconds

3 September

Tien woke at six o'clock. The dog lay next to him on the floor. The animal observed his weak movements on the bed and lifted his head. The next second three short beeps were heard from the clock. Tien bend down and petted Chaozu on his head. He could clearly feel the skull of the dog underneath his fur, felt the bumps against his hand. Afterwards he thought of Marron. Immediately she was back in his mind. He stretched his long body and tried to interpret the light behind the curtains. It didn't work, he had to stand up to look at it. Staring at the clammy morning mist that covered the city like a blanket. For breakfast he ate two slices of bread with cheese and paprika. He dragged the dog down the stairs for a walk around the block. He left him in the living room after that. At 7.15 he opened the door of his office, with the morning papers underneath his arm. 'Still no trace of Marron.'

During the morning call the tasks were distributed. In the case-Marron Chestnut there wasn't many to distribute. Initially the work existed out of checking earlier rapists. Those who had finished their prison sentence or had had a free day on that fatefull night and everybody who were ever accused but never convicted. In reality they were all waiting untill somebody found Marron's abused and dead body, so that they could continue the investigation. Her picture hung on the pin-up board in the conference room. Every time they walked past it her smile cut through heart and soul, and meanwhile they still had an ounce of hope that the girl would show up with the most fantastic explanation.

When the telephone rang, and it did so continuously, everybody turned around and stared at the one who had picked up, in order to eventually read from his face if it was about Marron, because they thought they could see that. The people in the emergency room, on every moment of the day, felt their heart jump at every phone call. They knew it would happen sooner or later.

A new search action was set up. How far and how long they would dregde was still unsure. But they knew at which place they had to start.

Tien drove to Eighteen's house. He saw the face of Mrs. Chestnut behind the window, most probably she had heard the car. He stepped out slowly, on purpose, in order not to create false hope.

'I almost give up,' she said weakly.

'I understand it's hard,' he said, 'but we're still searching.'

'I have always known it was too beautiful to be true, that we got Marron,' she said.

'But she is real, isn't she?' Tien asked carefully.

Eighteen's bottom lip trembled. 'She _was_ real. Now, I don't know what she is anymore.' Without saying another word, she walked to the room. Afterwards towards the window. 'Here I stand most of the time. Or I sit in her room. I don't do anything. I am so afraid that I might forget her,' she said fearfully. 'Scared she might slip from my mind, scared that I might do things or think about things without Marron.'

'Nobody expects you to do something right now,' Tien said.

He went to sit unasked on the couch. He saw her hair was greasy and that she wore the same clothes she had been wearing the first time they had met. Maybe she hadn't even undressed.

'I'd like to speak to your friend,' Tien said.

'Bulma? She's living a couple of minutes from here, in the center of West City. She'll stop by later.'

'Can you communicate well with her?' he asked.

'Yes,' she smiled. 'It has always been that way.'

'And Marron's father. Krillin. He has two brothers that live in the nieghbourhood. Marron's uncles?'

She nodded. 'Kuri and Kran Chestnut. They are married and both have a family. They live near the post office.'

'Do you have a lot of contact with them?' he wanted to know.

She shook her head. 'Not with them. It's funny. That little bit of family that you have, and you almost never see them. But I know they helped searching yesterday. All of them.'

'Did one of them contact you?'

'They are afraid to,' she said softly. 'They must be scared. I don't know what they think. I don't want to know. I have enough with my own fantasy.' She shivered, as if gruesome thoughts invaded her mind immediately.

'But Marron knows her cousins and nieces?'

'Off course. But the kids she knows best are Bra and Trunks. The children of Vegeta and Bulma. She goes over there a lot. She loves 'aunt' Bulma. That's the only one she really likes.'

'And her husband?' he said. 'What does he do?'

'Vegeta is in the oil company, he travels a lot. He's almost never at home. Krillin is also gone quite a lot. They both complain about how they have to sleep in a hotel every night and that is is exhausting and all. But most probably they both like it that way. Then they don't have to bother with the trivial stuff.'

He didn't have a comment for that.

'Does Marron love her 'uncle' Vegeta?' he asked softly. She was quite for a while, while the meaning of his question hit her. After that she nodded. 'Yes. Vegeta and Bulma are my best friends. Marron goes over there for years already and she likes it there. They are both neat people.'

She said it with much conviction. Tien glanced around the room. A couple of pictures of Marron hung on the wall, taken with a few years in between. On one of those pictures Marron was shown holding a cat.

'She is completely besotted with animals,' he mused. 'Her bedroom is full of them. That cat, is it gone?'

It went silent in the room. Tien was completely unprepared for the reaction the question had led to. Eighteen collapsed and slapped her hands in front of her face. Then she yelled with a voice that went straight through your core. 'That cat was Bra's! It got hit by a car. But Marron never had a pet. Not even a mouse! I said no. Always no! Because I didn't want to have it and now I don't get it why I was so egoistical. That she never got a young kitten or a puppy or something else that she wanted to have, even if she nagged me for it. Because I didn't want to have all that trouble with animals, with the hair and the poop and the piss and everything that comes with it! But if she comes back, then she can have as many animals as she want! I promise that, I really do!'

It went deadly silent. Eighteen's face was red. Then she started to weep again.

'I am so dumb,' she cried. 'I am so sad and so horribly desperate that I think about buying a puppy. Because then she must come home again. She would hear the whining of the puppy, wherever she was, and come home quick. That's how I think. Like a child.'

'Well,' said Tien. 'Off course you can take in a puppy.'

She shook her head. 'I think about so many strange things,' she said. 'The most improbable things.' She wiped her tears away with the hem of her blouse.

'I understand,' Tien said softly. 'What you are going through right now, you have never experienced it before.'

Her eyes widened. 'Oh yes! I have experienced it a lot of times already. This is exactly what I was afraid of the whole time. For this I was prepared. That's how it is to be a mother!'

'Good,' he said, 'so you experience what you have already foreseen in your thoughts. Is it different than what you thought it might be?'

'It's a lot and a lot worse,' she weeped.

* * *

Bulma Briefs had brought her daughter Bra to the schoolbus. Now she watched as her son Trunks brought the milk carton up to his mouth. And then she spoke to him in a serious tone.

'Trunks Vegeta! I don't like that and you know it.'

He put the carton down and wanted to walk out of the kitchen.

'Take a sandwich,' she said imploringly.

'Not hungry,' he mumbled.

She heard him in the hallway. He put on his sport shoes.

'I thought you had a seminar toady?' she yelled. She went after him, didn't want him to leave.

'Yes,' he said questionaly, while he looked up at her.

'Than I'm counting on you to study,' she said, thinking about the last and most important year of school.

'I have to go to Yajirobi first. We are working on the car together.'

She thought about it for a while, looking at him. He kept his face averted.

'You are worrying quite a lot about that dent,' she said hesitantly. 'For god's sake, it's only a car.'

He didn't answer, but pulled on his shoelaces. Hard, she realized.

'Goten called for you,' she said. 'Now I like that boy don't you? You guys are friends I hope?'

'Yeah,' Trunks said. 'But he doesn't know anything about a car. And Gohan neither.'

'No, no. But Yajirobi is so much older than you. I think it is still better for you to socialize with boys your age, right?'

'I am doing that,' he argued. 'But I need help with the car. Yajirobi has a garage. And tools.'

He kept sitting there. Even made a dubble knot in the white laces. His fingers shook a little. Bulma saw that and felt a vague feeling of worry. Suddenly she got the feeling that she didn't know this tall eighteen year old. It was a very uncomfortable feeling. When he finally stood up he still had his face averted. He searched through the hangers for his coat.

'Trunks,' she said, friendlier. 'I know it sucks about that car. But Marron has disappeared. Maybe she's even dead. I just can't get how you can be so worried about a dent in your car. I'm becoming desperate, because it isn't right!'

The outburst of his mother got to him. He wanted to walk out of the door, but she grabbed his arm and forced him to look at her. To her surprise she saw a tear.

'Trunks,' she said, worried. 'What's the matter?'

He quickly wiped his face with his hand. 'I don't know, there are so many thingd.' He said. 'The thing with Marron. You don't have to think that I don't feel anything about that. They are going to search again today, but I don't know if I'm going to.'

'Was it that bad?' Bulma asked, whispering.

Trunks nodded. 'Every time you raise a bush, your heart stands still,' he said.

Then he was gone. She stood in the hallway and heard him disappear. With quick paces, as if he was running. Bulma slid down the wall. Everything was so horrible, she thought. How can we keep up?

Author's notes: I have decided that I am not going too slow. If anything I like to build up the climax. But what the climax will be... You'll have to keep reading to find out.

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	9. Chapter 9

Author's noets: It rather funny how I only get one review per chapter. Come on guys, show a bit more enthusiasm!

Reviews:

MangekyoMasta510: Thanks for the review! And you go with the Trunks theory?

Black seconds

Number Sixteen was, as usual, on his way with his three wheeler. The weather had cleared up and the paintwork gleamed a copper green in the September sun. People who passed him by turned around to look at the moped. It was funny and obtrusive. On his back he carried an old gray rucksack. His face was closed of and taut, and he couldn't relax, this third day of September. He had much to think about. Number Sixteen kept a steady speed, just below forty. The valves of his leather hat had been pulled down and the strings were thightly tied down. The trailer was empty, the black awning was rolled up like a fat sausage and had been tied down with a rope. Sixteen went shopping. He always shopped at the Joker, because it was a small shop and he knew exactly where everything was. Not that he couldn't search or that he couldn't find what he needed. But here it was easy. Behind the register always sat the same girl. She was used to him not talking and never embarassed him. He found it was nice to have everything the same as always. And this way he also avoided the traffic in the centre.

Sixteen lived at the end of the city. Next to the woods, behind a small hill, in a small house consisting of one floor with a kitchen, a living room and a bedroom. Underneath the house was a basement. He didn't have a bathroom, but he did have a nice restroom with a washing table and a mirror. The house was clean and pretty tidy. Not because Sixteen kept up with it, but because his father of seventy three passed by every week. Sixteen seemed quite scary sometimes, but that depended on his mood. The Sixteen that the people saw was a heavy, broad and slow man who couldn't talk. A man who turned his head when people looked at him, who immediatly walked away when being spoken to. And yet he was curious, especially on a safe distance. That he couldn't talk, moreover, was rather controversial. Some thought that Number Sixteen was just plain stupid, a mute. Others thought that he had stopped talking pure out of protest, because something traumatic had happened during his childhood. Some others made the rumours worse. Some talked about a fire, in which his mother and a whole nest of siblings had been killed, while Sixteen and his father had stood with bare feet in the snow and had heard the terrible cries. In reality Sixteen was an only child. Others said that Sixteen could talk just fine. But that he never wanted to. He just wanted to be left alone. Nobody ever wondered which thoughts and dreams flitted through his big head. Probably, most people thought that nothing played through his head. The couldn't be farther from the truth. Sixteen had several thoughts and with each thought there was an image. Sometimes those images stood still, or they passe dby like a film, sometimes slow, sometimes fast and flashy, like lightning. Every time he passed by the Joker, he saw a bunch of playing carts in front of him, spread out like a fan with the joker on top of everything. That joker winked sometimes, or he grinned widely. Then Sixteen jumped and became irritated. When he stepped into the store and smelled the aroma of bread, he saw his fathers hands in front of him while they beat the bread dough. Nobody kneaded bread dough like his father. It got punished, it was beaten half to death, but eventually it was cherished by greasy and sweaty hands. If he thought of his father he smelled his scent and he remembered something he once had said or done. His voice, sharp as a knife, the plastic like scent of new playing carts, the bread dough, all of it took in a lot of space. A lot happened in his brain, sometimes so much happened that he didn' have any room anymore for having contact with people. He took every question as a threat. He liked the images beter. With that, he could deal. His father watched him, he took care of his clothes and kept his house clean. Sixteen accepted that his father visited him, but sometimes he got irritated by him. He talked like an endless stream. He heard the words and could understand them, but he found that most of them weren't needed. They appeared to him as loud waves that made him think of surf of the sea. If he begun with his verbal waterfall, he closed himself of and he looked in front of him with a stubborn face. But that wasn't a reason for the man to stop. His father called him for discipline, judged him, commanded him and expected things from Sixteen, but deep inside he cared for his son immensely and was just worried for his well being. Scared he got in a fight with someone, scared that his sullen face warned people off. Sixteen had long ago fallen of the boat and his father accepted that. But he was also afraid that other, menacing people would hurt him or force him into situations that he couldn't control. Because he knew that behind that closed of face immense powers were hidden. His father had seen them one time. An amazing and almost hysterical sort of anger, that turned Sixteen deaf and blind. It had been a nightmare that he hid away deep in himself, but that turned up again sometimes, in his dreams. Then his father woke up, wet from sweat, appalled at what had happened, with himself and his son. Then he panicked if he thought about what could happen. If Sixteen became scared. Or when he got attacked. That fear ate at him.

'Do you always have to wear that stupid hat?' he said then. 'You can also just buy a cap. It would suit you much better. I know you think your moped is amazing, but do you see all those people staring at you? Most people are just fine with a moped on two wheels. There is nothing wrong with your balance, right?'

He pulled a martyr's face, but his son didn't care. After such an outburst his father bowed his head, shamefully because his son tortured him like this, but he couldn't do anyhting about it.

Sixteen parked his three wheeler in front of the Joker and went inside. He wandered a while between the aisles, on his broad, outward turned feet. He wore thick boots, whether it was summer or winter. The boot top had become so wide that he could pull them on without loosening the shoelaces. He carried a red grocery bag, he never bought so much that he needed a cart. Today he bought coffee, milk and coffee milk, a white bread and a pack of fresh youghurt. At the register he grabbed three papers. It striked the cashier as odd, that he bought papers. He was subscribed for the local news paper and never bought the national ones. This was true for a lot of people, she thought. Marron Chestnut's disappearance kept everyone busy who visited the local supermarket. Everybdoy had its own thoughts on the matter and this was a good place as any to ventilate them. She scanned the products when Sixteen remembered he had forgotten something important. He wandered back to the aisles and returned with a bag of peanuts. The cashier scrunched her nose when saw the bag of peanuts, because they weren't pealed and she couldn't comprehend that somebody ate unpealed and unsalted peanuts. And he was very moody today, she realized. He never said a word, but he always took his time for shopping, as if it was an important ritual for him that he enjoyed. Now he payed hastily, searched with trembling fingers in his wallet for change. He put the groceries in the old rucksack. Afterwards he walked out of the shop, without greeting with his finger to his hat. The door slammed close. She looked out of the window how he walked to his moped. He was very absent today, she mused, and she was at the same time intrigued by this man because untill this day he never said a word aloud. Sixteen started his vehicle. Again he maintained a constant speed while he rode to his house. When he neared Mama Betty's Shop he saw a surveillance car and a couple of officers. Sixteen clamped his body as if he was a steal spring. He held the steering wheel of his moped forcefully and stared straight ahead of him, demonstratively. One of the officers looked up and saw the vehicle. Sixteen had never been in contact with the police, but he carried a great deal of respect for everyone who was in uniform. Moreover, his moped was in such a state that it needed a check up, but he lived of an allowance and couldn't afford it. He often thought that somebody would come to take the number plates of his moped. Luckily these agents seemed to be busy with something else. The searched for Marron. He knew that and he tried his hardest not to interupt them. He passed, still staring stiffly in front of him, but he felt he was being watched. Then he turned right. A couple of minutes later he turned left, to the small lane where number twelve was. He parked his vehicle and covered the moped with black tarp. His garage was full of junk and there was nospace left for the moped. He went inside. In the kitchen he stayed to listen. Alert as a cat, with all his senses in full concentration. He put his rucksack on the table and unpacked the groceries. He opened the bag of peanuts and shook a few in his hand. Slowly he walked to the room. The door of the bedroom stood open a crack. He looked at it for a while and stayed where he was, his breathing was laboured. The peanuts became moist in his closed fist. At last he walked over to the window. There Sixteen had a bird cage and on the stick sat a grey parrot, almost as big as a dove. He whistled a beautiful dark tune in order to deserve the peanuts. Sixteen put his fingers through the bars and laid the peanuts in the cratch. The bird swooped down on them and grabbed one with a claw and jammed it with his beak. A dry, snappy sound was heard when the top of it broke of. Then the telephone rang.

It was his father;

'Listen,' he said, 'Tomorrow and the day after I'm busy, so we need to do the weekly washing today.'

Sixteen started chewing. But he had nothing in his mouth.

'I can't saty long,' he went on, 'because tonight there is a bridge meeting at Tulla's and last week I also didn't go, so tonight I want to go to there. I'll put on the washing machine, so you'll have to hang out the laundry by yourself. You can do that, right? Je only have to see that there are no wrinkles in the clothes. You can't iron that well. I first have to mope my floors and then I'll be over.'

'No,' Sixteen said, he was scared.

He saw his father in front of him as a washing machine, and now he wanted to go through every room. He envisioned splashing water, foamy soap and his fahters face that slowly turned red. He smelled the storng scent of Ajax, felt the uncomfort of having his furniture moved, fresh air that that drifted through the open windows because his father opened them, the strange scent of fresh laundry, he saw...

'You know it needs to be done,' his father whined. 'We have already discussed this!'

His voice started to tremble. Sixteen breathed rapidly in the horn, didn't want to hear what he would say now.

'Have you eaten already?' his father continued.

He was caring, he had always been. 'You have to eat more healthily. Have you ever heard of vegetables and fruit? I think you only eat bread, but your body needs more. You should buy some vitamins and take those in the autumn and winter. Van Molly. I know for sure they sell it at the Joker, and otherwise they could bring it in for you. You have to try harder, take a bit of responsibility. I don't become younger through theyears,' he kept on ranting.

Sixteen threw a fast glance at the door of his bedroom. Afterwards he looked at the clock.

'Have you washed yourself already today?' he went on. 'Dende knows how many times you wash your hair. But it won't be much. And you aren't torough either, if you hang over that washing table.' He kept on prattlinh, without waiting for a reaction. 'And do you dress well if you go outside? It's becoming autumn, you have to prevent sickness. If you get ill, then there is no one to take care of you, I can't come by every day. I have it busy enough as it is already. Seventeen's mother is still sitting in front of the window next door, with her broken hipbone. Dende may know what would happen to her if I wasn't there. I wonder if anybody would ever come to take care of me, if I can't do it myself anymore. If you had a wife, then I could have enjoyed my old days, but it's like they say, you get what you deserve. If that's case I must have sinned greatly in my youth, without me remembering it.'

He started to end the monologue.

'You can already start removing the furniture. The rugs have to be hung over the washing line to air out. If you do that I can start early. I hope the car will start.' He said, worriedly. 'it didn't work well yesterday, I wonder if maybe the battery is starting to get too old. Do you have any cleaning supplies in the house?'

'No!' said Sixteen. He saw his father in front of him again, as a tornado, a whirlwind, he talked away all his images that he didn't dare to think about, he brushed them away with his words.

'I'll bring a bottle of Ajax,' he said. 'We'll have to check your closets today. You never think of something. How many times have I been there when you didn't have any toilet paper. I can't keep up with it anymore. You are a grown up after all. But now I have to quit. You already start, I'll be there in a second.'

'No!' Sixteen said. He said it louder and louder. His father heard the tone, it was unusual. He always said no and he said it with every intonation, but now something different sounded through. A sort of despair. He frowned his head and closed his mouth. He didn't care for more problems, not one.

'Yes!' his father said.

Author's notes: Finally a side of Sixteen. I hope he's in character because I don't know him very well.

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	10. Chapter 10

Author's notes: So here's another installment. Oh, and I have made a poll on my profile concerning which stories I should continue on at the moment. Since I have to many stories running, I'll put a couple on temporary hiatus. But I do want your input on which should be continued right now.

Reviews:

Sergeant Daniel: Thanks for the review and yes, you're right. The confusing part has started.

Black Seconds

Bulma put her arms through the sleeves of her coat. She stopped halfway because heard the slamming of a car door. With one arm inside her coat she pushed down the handle and the door open. A very tall man with a bald head came walking over. At the bottom of the stairs he stopped, he bowed for her and walked up the last steps. She put on her coat fully and gave him a hand. He was so tall that she felt like a teenage girl of sorts. She had almost given him a courteous bow.

'I have just seen Eighteen,' Tien said.

'I was about to go see her,' she said quickly.

'Can I ask a couple of minutes of your time?'

'Off course.'

She pulled of her coat again. Lead him to the kitchen. There, a corner couch stood, with cushions on the railing.

'What about Marron,' Bulma said desperately, 'there aren't many possibilities, are there?' She stared at him with fearful eyes. 'Eighteen has almost given up hope,' she whined. 'I don't know how we have to go on, if the worst imaginable has happened. This will be the final blow for her. She only lives for her little girl. Ever since Krillin has left.'

Tien listened to what Bulma had to say. Because she was scared she talked a lot.

'It's not good to be alone with children,' she said sadly; she was sauntered around in the kitchen, but didn't do anything. 'Children shouldn't mean too much for their parents, that is too heavy a burden for them. How it should go on with Eighteen when Marron hits puberty and wants to go out, I can't even imagine.'

She blinked with her eyes, confused due to the jump her mind had made.

'Could you maybe tell me something about the reason of Eighteen's divorce?' Tien asked.

Bulma stared at him with big eyes. 'why are you asking that?' she said surprised.

He smiled a little. 'I don't even know that myself. But I ask everything.'

He explained it in such a simple way, with a downcast gaze, as if he thought it rude to ask such things. She wanted to help him.

'But that divorce hasn't got anything to do with Marron's dissapearance?' she asked, unsure.

Tien looked at her. 'We don't think so either. I'm just curious. Is it hard to talk about it?'

She hesitated. 'No, I don't know...'

She laid her hands on the table, as if she wanted to show him symbolicaly how clean they were.

'So,' he repeated. 'Can you tell me something about the break up of Eighteen and Krillin Chestnut? You are her best friend. Do you have a close band with her?'

She nodded without looking at him. 'I don't know it exactly,' she said, evasive, 'but I thought there was something with a woman. Krillin had had an 'adventure' and Eighteen didn't tolerate that. She threw him out. Krillin is ten years younger than Eighteen,' she went on. 'And you don't have to get me wrong. Krillin is a very neat man, he's not the sort to jump into bed with everyone. But that one night it did happen and Eighteen couldn't cope. She is so, well, how shall I say it, so balck and white in everyhting. So square.'

'Did she give you details?'

Bulma looked the other way and stayed focused on the curtains covering the window. 'Yes. But I don't think I can just tell them to anyone. Those details also won't help you further.'

He backed off and nodded. 'Eighteen says that Marron really likes you and your husband?'

Bulma saw Marron in front of her again, a short, sparkling image of a very lively girl, here in her own kitchen. Then she blinked and the image was gone.

'We are used to her coming over,' she nodded. 'It is so quiet now that she isn't here. She's such a child that can be very assertive. She has more uncles and aunts, but she never visits them.'

'Is there a reason why she doesn't see them often?' Tien asked carefully.

'It just happened. Krillin's brothers never showed much interest in Eighteen and Marron. They must have been busy with their own families. Or maybe they just don't connect. They live farther than us.'

'Do you work?' he wanted to know.

'I sometimes strike in at the Capsi school,' she said. 'When sometimes falls ill. For the rest I'm home.'

'Your daughter, Bra, how old is she?'

'Twelve,' Bulma said. 'She's in seventh grade. She hangs out with Marron a lot. This is very hard for her, I don't know what I have to tell her. But she read papers and watches television. I can't hide the news from her.'

'You can't tell her anything yet,' he said. 'We don't know what happened.'

She was surprised again by how neutrally he could express himself, because she was fairly sure that Marron was dead. She wasn't only dead, but maybe she had also died in a gruesome way. The worst way imaginable. With a unimaginable pain and fear.

'And your son, Trunks Vegeta?' he asked.

When he named her son, a frown appeared on her forehead. 'What's with him?' she said.

'How does he cope?'

She shook her head in a desperate way. 'Bad,' she conceded. 'He isn't someone with his heart on his tongue. Bra and I at least try to talk to each other about it. Trunks joined the search last night and he found it horrible. I have to admit that I have thought of him as an egositical boy quite often. Who only thinks of himself. This week he managed to get a dent in his car,' she smiled. 'Unbelieveable, so frustrated was he. He had had him for about three weeks,' she added. 'And then I came. With all the other bad things. Then he got something to think about,' she decided. She had talked herself warm, her cheeks were red.

'Does he work?' Tien wanted to know.

'He is in his last year of high school. He doesn't really like it and I don't think he'll study further. The only thing he wants is to work and earn money, be busy with his car and be with his friends. He sits a lot behind his computer. Or he watches films. I think it's fine,' she said. 'I don't have that many ambitious plans for my children. I just want them to be happy.'

'He had an accident with his car,' Tien said. 'ON the first of September? Did I hear that well enough?'

'Yes,' she said. 'He left at the beginning of the evening and returned very late at night. He was quite upset, the poor boy. You know what it's like with cars and boys. But I do think I managed to get it into his head that having a dent in your car is nothing compared to what a human can really overcome.'

'You said at the beginning of the evening. Do you remember how late it was?'

She frowned her head. 'A little past six. He yelled from the hallway that he was leaving. The news on TVWest had just started, I always watch that.'

'Where did he go to?'

'He hangs out a lot with a boy called Goten. He went over to there,' she said. ' He lives at Mount Paozu.'

'Then I'll go talk to him,' Tien said. 'He could have seen something on his way there. Is he at school now?' he went on asking.

'No,' she said. 'Toady he went to Yajirobe. An other friend. Or, they were friends. Before. I wasn't really fond of it and I made that clear to Trunks as well. Bt Yajirobe knows a bit about cars. They are going to repare the dent together.'

Tien grew curious. 'Why weren't you fond of their friendship?'

'Yajirobe is four years older than Trunks,' Bulma said. 'He seems to have been involved in a car robbery and maybe some worse stuff. So I didn't like it. It has been a long while ago. But Trunks is desperate to get the car in order again.'

'Your husband, Vegeta,' Tien said. 'Eighteen said that he's gone very often, travelling or so I heard?'

'He is now in East city,' she said. 'But he's coming home this weekend. Usually, I like it that he's travelling, then we don't get in each other's way the whole time and the kids are big enough, they can manage on their own. But at this moment, it's quite hard. After everything that has happened as of late. We call every evening.'

'That Yajirobe,' said Tien,' he lives in the neighbourhood?'

'More to the centre of town. Yajirobe Sandwell. I believe it's called the Drairyroad, they have a big yellow house with an enormous garage. He lives there with his mother.'

'You say he is older. Does he have a job?'

'He works in the bowling hall of town. At least, that's what he used to do. Now he sometimes steps in at the Shell-station right next to it. That's how he gets his tools, you know. He is no mechanic, but I suppose he picked up a few things over there.'

Bulma was dumbfounded with the attention her son's friend was getting. She threw a glance at her watch and called out: 'I have to leave. Eighteen is waiting for me!'

'I have kept you longer than I thought it would take.' Tien said.

There, that small bow again. His appearance impressed her. He radiated peace and calm, he was so self-assured. They walked out of the house together. Bulma opened the door to the garage. Tien glanced inside, at the white Volvo and the empty space next to it. At the back of the garage stood four tires, persumably studded tires that would be used very soon. Some junk, a couple of boxes on a shelf. Right next to the door he was looking through lay four threadbare rubber mats. Opel, he thought, her son has an Opel.

Why did I tell him so much? Bulma thought.

Author's notes: Alright, that was some input from Bulma. Who will be questioned next? Read the next chapter to find out.

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	11. Chapter 11

Author's notes: Oh my god! Two people reviewed the same chapter. That's the first time ever in this fic, so thanks to:

MangekyoMasta510: Thanks for the compliment. It's nice to know people like this story.

Sergeant Daniel: This is the best compliment that I could ever receive! It's what I had in mind when I started on this fic and it's so gratifying to know that it's working.

Black Seconds

Yajirobe Sandwell was sweating. A worklight dangled from the ceiling and the warmth of the strong bulb burned on his skull. He had scraped most of the paintwork off with a pocket knife, the gray metal shone showed. It was, everything considered, a very simple damage. The painting as the final step would be the hardest. Yajirobe wasn't desperate, but he did need a bit of a break. He slid on the working table and lit a cigarette. His eyes lay so deep in his face that they, when he bowed his head, seemed like two black holes in his thinned face. He really had lost a lot of weight. His gaze slid over the walls of the garage, over the shelves with tins filled with nails, the boxes with bolts, bougies, screws, oil and other tools. Against the back stood an old storage shelf with hundreds of small drawers. Only Yajirbe knew what was in those drawers. If someone would ever get it into his head to snoop around, he would only see jars and boxes. One thing was certain. There lay also something in those drawers that produced a lot of money on the streets. He smoked and his eyes narrowed as he pondered. Then he heard a car grind on the grit. A tall man with a bald head stepped out. Yajirobe was immediately on full alert. Automatically he tensed up. A second before Tien's tall body appeared in the doorway of the garage, he managed to pull on a questioning face. Yajirobe saw him as a sharp shilouet. The feeling that was growing in him felt familiar and he was thinking fast. The man kept standing there. But he was looking curiously at the black Opel, at the cluttered tools and then finally at Yajirobe.

'Sandwell?' he asked politely.

Yajirobe nodded. His stomach shrunk. The man who stood in the doorway looking at him, the man who was almost two metres tall, was a cop. He knew that for certain.

'Tinkering with the car?' Tien asked curiously.

'I don't tinker,' Yajirobe said dismissively. 'This is purely cosmetic.'

Tien came a few steps closer. He reviewed the front fender.

'I'm from the police,' he said. 'Is Trunks Vegeta Briefs here?'

He met Yajirobe's gaze, while pulling out an ID from his pocket.

'No,' Yajirobe said quickly.

He jumped from the bench and kept standing with crossed arms.

'Do you know where he is?' Tien asked.

Yajirobe withstood the desire to look outside. Trunks was at Mama Betty's Shop. He could come back every given moment.

'He'll show around sooner or later. But I don't know when. Why are you asking after him?' he asked.

'You have probably heard about Marron Chestnut.'

'Yes. Well.'

'I just wanted to talk to him. Have you also participated in the search?' Tien asked.

'No. But Trunks did.'

Yajirobe moved forward a few steps, with his hands deep inside his pockets.

'Had an accident with the car?' Tien kept on distracting, looking at the black Opel.

'It's not my car,' Yajirobe answered quickly. 'I don't get in accidents, I'm not that bad a driver. Its Trunks' car. He slammed against the guardrail on his way to the centre of town. He just got his driver's license,' he said apologetically, with an attempt at a confidential smile. He himself was already driving for four years and he saw himself as an excellent driver.

'Novices behind the wheel, you don't have to think lightly about it,' Tien nodded. 'He was lucky maybe, that he only hit the guard rail. And nothing else.'

'Yeah, well,' Yajirobe repeated.

He threw his cigarette on the ground. A lot of thoughts moved through his mind. Was this a coincidence? A cop in his garage? Had someone slipped something? He became dizzy and leaned against the wall. He wanted to wipe the sweat of his brow, but he managed to stop that reflex at the last moment.

'Trunks is lucky that you know something about cars,' Tien said.

Yajirobe nodded. He started to panic. Trunks could drive up onto the lane in Yajirobe's Scorpio, with bottles of coke and cigarettes. He didn't knew where he had to keep his gaze fixed on. Not on Tien's searching grey eyes, not on the storage shelf, not on Trunks' dented Opel. Finally, he stared at the floor.

Tien stepped into the garage, looked inside the Opel. Afterwards he walked around the car.

'Tough cars, those old Opels,' he said with the flair of an expert.

Yajirobe nodded quietly.

'I'll speak to Trunks another time,' he said. He quickly looked over his shoulder to the back of the garage. 'Nice cabinet, by the way. For bolts and screws?'

yajirobe nodded indifferently, but his heart thudded wildly underneath his overall. Now he'll open the drawer, Yajirobe thought, he'll search through it. He knows who I am. Everything is on the computer database. It's just a question of pushing some buttons and then there will appear big and small cases. Especially small cases, Yajirobe thought, sweating. But Tien was finally content. He walked outside. A car door slammed close. Yajirobe was pinned against the wall, while he heard the roaring of the Volvo's engine, who drove backwards of the lane. He kept standing there for a few moments in order to get his nerves under control. Then he heard another car. It was Yajirobe's own Scorpio. Trunks entered with a shopping bag in his hand.

'Who was that?'

He stared distrustful at Yajirobe. Yajirobe thought quickly. He had to make sure Trunks kept calm.

'Give me the coke,' he said. 'I'm so damn thirsty I could drink a whole barrel.'

Trunks gave hime a bottle of coke and opened his own.

'He was from the police,' Yajirobe said slowly.

Trunks paled. 'Why?'

Yajirobe looked at Trunks, a quick glance who immediately searched the floor again. 'He asked after you. Damn it, I thought I was about to get a heart attack. He kept staring at my storage shelf.'

'Your cabinet?' Trunks asked non-comprehendingly.

'There some stuff in there. If you know what I mean,' Yajirobe said.

'But why did he ask for me?' Trunks asked fearfully.

'Damn it, you are the friend of her family,' Yajirobe said. 'Of course they ask for you.'

Yajirobe emptied his bottle in one big gulp. 'Relax, man. Now we'll got to work,' he said harshly.

Author's notes: So this is Yajirobe's side. Let me know how you find this story so far. Review


	12. Chapter 12

Author's notes: You know, the more reviews the merrier! No, really, the more reviews I get the quicker I update because then I know that a lot of readers are requesting an update.

Reviews:

MangekyoMasta510: I couldn't believe how fast you reviewed! It made me so happy I wrote this chapter. So this one's for you.

Black Seconds

Doctor Gero Number was born in 1929 and he still drove a car. He had to get his eyes tested every year and he always passed with flying colours. He had the vision of a hawk. No bird from the other side of the rode escaped his attention, no plush, not even a crumb. But his hearing was worse. Because he had never had the tendency to listen carefully, he barely noticed. He put the cleaning supplies in the back of his car and went on his way to his son. That son, he thought, for there was no hope for him. When he had still been young he had envisioned a daughter. But that wish didn't come true. He only got a hot-spirited, screaming boy. His mother died when Number Sixteen was seven years old. The shock of him becoming a father to something he didn't understand, kept him from finding a new wife or father more children. But all in all, it was his son. And he wasn't the kind of man to neglect his plight. The people didn't need to think that he was an untrustworthy man. That's why he went to Sixteen's house every week to take care of him. For his furniture and clothes. He kept his distance by talking constantly, while his gaze was fixed on a spot about five inches above his big head. He didn't get an answer anyway. Now he was thinking about the telephone conversation. He had been put out by something and he felt a vague feeling of worry creep up on him when he drove into another street. Because he hated any feeling of sentimentality this feeling quickly turned into anger.  
If Sixteen had gotten himself into trouble, he would have to pull it out of him and clean the mess. Forty years or more he had waited for it. That something would happen. He had prepared himself for it. He hated tears, despair and sadness, anything that could make thoughtful, adult people change into soft and weak-hearted creatures. If that happened, he became unsure. His heart was closed of by an almost completely petrified fleece, but inside it could rage uncontrollably, even if his eyes remained dry. He didn't hope anymore, not on anything, except for death. He had friends, but they weren't close. They were a wailing wall which he used and he let himself be used also. He smiled sometimes, but that was most often out of contempt. He liked being ready for others, like with his neighbour Margotte with her broken hipbone, but always with a martyr's face. And yet, when he finally went to bed in the evening, he thought about everybody who couldn't do the same thing as he could. Then he couldn't sleep because he thought about Margottes leg that hurt.  
Now he worried about Sixteen. He said no. He always said that, but he knew his son well enough to suspect that something had happened. Deep inside he thought his son could talk just fine. That he just refused to. He never said that aloud against somebody, they wouldn't believe it anyway, and he took it as a personal insult that Sixteen had chosen the silence. If he might be stupid or not, he didn't busy himself with that notion. He didn't have the strength anymore to be amazed by Sixteen. He was Number Sixteen and he was used to him. He remembered that he would soon be burried in a couple of years and that Sixteen would patter around his house and that everything would grow above his head. In his mind he saw how the grass and weeds zoomed from underneath the tiles in the kitchen. Maybe he would be lucky and the city would appoint him a nurse. If someone dared to get close to the gruff man. He shivered and assessed that it was already September and that the windows would have to be patched before the frost set in. Otherwise he could also add a few drops of spirit into the water. For these kind of things Gero always had a solution. He drove up the lane to the house and stepped out.  
Opening the backdoor he pulled out the cleaning supplies. Then he walked to Sixteen's door. It was locked. A shiver of irritation went through his tough body and he began pounding on the window, so hard it almost broke.

'Come on Sixteen!' he yelled angrily. 'I'm not in the mood for games. You're not the only one who needs my help!'

It was deadly quiet in the house. He listened and knocked a couple of times on the door. He was driven solely by anger when he put down the cleaning supplies and walked back to the car. He had to be difficult and turn his back on his own father, that was fine, he was prepared for everything. Of course he himself also had a key of his son's house. It lay in his glove compartment and he went to get it right now. Resolutely he put the key in the lock. Or rather, half way in. There was something stuck in the keyhole. He stood dumbfounded on the porch, while he tried to push the key into the hole with all his might. It didn't work. Meanwhile it was also difficult to pull him out again. What in Dende's name was he doing? He had put something in the hole, the key stayed stuck. His face became red of anger and the fear began travelling through his body. It started in his abdomen and sooner or later it would reach his stoned heart.  
He ran down the stairs, tumbled a wooden crate and put it underneath the kitchen window. He climbed unto it. The kitchen was empty, but there was light on. He moved the crate to the other window, to his bedroom. There the drapes were closed. There wasn't even a single crack through which he could peer. He walked back to the front porch and looked at the three-wheeler. As usual it stood, covered by sail cloth. He was home, then. Sixteen never went somewhere by foot, he felt vulnerable then. People could halt him and say something to him or ask him something. For the third and last time he knocked hard on the door. Finally he gave up. He left the crate behind, went back to his car and pressed the horn. But then he reminded himself of how Sixteen had neighbours and they might come and see what that noise was all about. He stared at the kitchen's drapes but his son didn't show himself. Gero's patience had run out. He stepped out and ran to the garage. Searched for tools but didn't find anything useful. Finally he drove back home, where he walked in stamping, right to the telephone.

On the moment he heard the ringtone, something happened in his chest. His heart constricted. Maybe he had fallen from the basement stairs. Maybe he lay down there on the floor and it was over with him. He was very heavy. No, that's nonsense, he thought. There was something in the keyhole. He has locked me out. Then the phone was answered. He never said something, only picked up the phone and waited for the mealstorm of words to begin. No one else phoned Sixteen.  
When he picked up, he felt the relief pour through his body like warm water. Then he put his anger back on the front and he was back on familiar territory. He almost threatened his son. He had to clean up!

'You have to understand that Sixteen!'

Filth and dust, lines in the washing table, crumbs on the floor, it were just demons that pulled and pushed him, and he didn't have any rest at night unless he had cleaned them up. He couldn't sleep at night if his windows were dirty. He couldn't think clearly when the couch lay full with chips crumbs.

'Now you open up!' he yelled in the horn. 'I'm not liking this game! You have to thank me you are not in a home. Go outside and get that junk from the keyhole. I'll leave now. I'm there in five minutes and then you'll open!'

'No!' yelled Sixteen.

He hung up. Gero stood listening for a while to the silence on the other end. Then he ran outside. His sturdy shoes clattered over the parquet. It was a question of not weakening, not go sit and think. Just do, do! Getting the things done, it said deep inside himself. Further, further, until the end, that's where we all go.

In the garage he managed to find a crowbar. Afterwards he drove to Sixteen's house. Now he stood on the porch, his back curled, with a hammer in his hand. He put the crowbar in the crack between the door and its jamb and started hitting on it with the hammer. Gero was strong and wood was weak and old. When the crowbar had sunk in a couple of inches, he started to wiggle and turn it. The sweat was streaming of his face. He thought that one of the neighbours might see him and he didn't feel comfortable, but he couldn't stop. Now he heard his son inside, he ran around and threw with the doors. His head pounded. Suddenly the door began creaking enormously. The door opened. He let the crowbar go, it landed with a hard rinkling thud on the porch. Then he went inside.

Sixteen stood in the kitchen, his arms were held beside his body. He tried to read his son's mind, but it didn't work. He stayed silent. That didn't happen very often. They both stared at each other a long while.

'Tell me now what's going on,' he said, unusually soft for his nature.

Sixteen turned his back on him. He walked to the counter and found the bag of pindas. Taking one out of it and breaking it in half. Examined the content. His father took a step. He pulled the bag from his hands and laid it on the counter.

'I know something happened,' he said, louder now. He turned around and went inside the room. There he stood still, confused.

'What is the meaning of this?' he yelled. 'Are you sleeping on the couch now? And you haven't aired in days.'

His eyes flitted through the room, his pale irisses emitted a big worry.

'This is horrible,' he said. 'You can't let the left overs stay in the bin, you have to empty it every day, otherwise it will start to stink in a matter of hours. I have told you so countless of times. And there are also a lot of flies attracted to it, if you don't watch out! And how much junk can the bird create! You have to vacuum underneath the cage at least a couple of times a day. Is it that long ago that you have refreshed the papers on the bottom? Is that the reason why it smells so bad?'

He stared at the bedroom door. He didn't know why, but a big fear pushed him towards it. Step by step. His gaze shifted to the covers on the couch and back to the bedroom door. Sixteen followed him with fearful eyes. He stood at the door a while, listening. No sound could be heard from inside the door. He pushed down the door handle. The door didn't budge. His head started pounding again. His fear grew. It was because of that stench, so piercing and wonderful, so disgusting and sweet. He put down his fear and his anger dominated again. He ran outside and grabbed the corwbar from the porch, then he ran back inside.

Sixteen pressed himself against the wall. He was also afraid. He started to scull again, to hammer and to hit. With each hit a shockwave went through Sixteen's heavy body. This door was more difficult to break open than the outside door. The resistance of the wood made him crazy. Sixteen cowered. When the door finally slammed open, he closed his eyes and put his hand over both his ears. Doctor Gero went inside the room. There he kept standing, petrified.

Author's notes: Uh oh... This is kind of a cliff hanger.

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	13. Chapter 13

Author's notes: So I kind of was busy for a while, but then one of my readers kicked me in the butt and the muse started working again. So here it is! Enjoy.

Reviews:

MangekyoMasta510: So thanks for the virtual kick in the butt! Otherwise I think it would have been updated only next month.

Black Seconds 

The search for Marron Chestnut continued with full force. They would find her! A child couldn't just disappear in thin air. A child was laid down somewhere, partly or completely hidden. Somewhere in the district where she lived. They expanded the search area and found the most wonderful stuff which they collected in plastic bags. It was the police's job to determine what was important and what not. People who had before barely spoken to each other, began to know each other. Marron's disappearance was like a net that was tightened around them. A feeling that was both good and fearful. They did something together. And all the while there was someone walking around who knew the truth. They thought of a man, or maybe two. They thought that, in the worst case, it would be someone they knew. Someone who was sick, of course. Someone who wasn't in the right head, and dangerous. Maybe searching for other children. Now and then the anger flared up and they became consumed by fear. But in the first place they had something to talk about. The conversation deal with the government or the weather, but it went about Marron's murderer.  
If there were kids close by, the adults tried to dim their voices, but that didn't always work. They were full of it and they were flooded by news on the television, raido and papers. If the kids showed up on school, the teachers took over. They couldn't escape and they didn't want to either. They could barely remember how their existence had been before the earthquake, which this disappearance was, had happened.

Bra Briefs was eating breakfast. She put the spoon in the jam jar and stirred carefully through the raspberries. Everything went so slow. Her thoughts were somewhere else, the spoon acted on its own. Bulma glanced at her with bowed head and felt a numb pain inside. What could she say? How much coudl Bra handle? I don't know, she thought. I don't what happened to Marron. Still, she couldn't keep acting like nothing had happened. It was important word the things. And Bulma had words. She was afraid to use them, though.  
Bra felt her mother's gaze. Finally, she was content with the distribution of the raspberries. Why won't she look at me, Bulma thought. Why are we afraid to talk? We should yell and scream, we should cling to each other. Cling to the fact that we still have each other. And that's not something for granted. And what did Bra think? It had happened to Marron, so it can also happen to me? Bra chewed slowly and washed away the bread with some milk. She was a slender girl with blue hair and blue eyes. She looked a lot like her mother.  
Bulma looked at the face of her daughter. Her bangs rippled up and fell on either side of her face, sleek and shiny. One of her eyes was a little more layered with make up than the other, but Bra didn't want to redo it.

'How is it going, Bra', Bulma started. 'Do you talk a lot about Marron at school?'

Her daughter stopped chewing. 'It's becoming less,' she said softly.

'But you still think about it?'

She nodded with bowed head.

'And the teachers? What do they say?'

'Some talk a lot about it. Others say nothing.'

'But what do you think? Do you not want to tlak about Marron at all? Or do you want to talk about it a lot? If you could chose?'

Bra thought about it. Her face became red out of awkwardness. 'I don't know,' she said.

'But if I ask you what you think?' Bulma said. 'About what happened? What do you say then?'

Bra waited longer. Bulma didn't dare breath out of fear that her daughter wouldn't dare to voice her thoughts.

'I think she's dead,' Bra said softly. She sounded so guilty that Bulma's heart shrunk.

'I also think so,' she said.

Now it had been said. What everybody knew. Everyone but Eighteen, Bulma thought. Eighteen was forced to keep hoping, otherwise her body would collapse and all her bones would break. Her blood would stop flowing and her lungs wouldn't expand anymore. She would fall to the ground as a sack full of broken bones. Bulma held in her breath when she thought about it. She had seen it so clearly in front of her and she had the feeling she had to hold onto her body tightly in order to keep her organs in place. Otherwise they would let go, she feared, and would land beneath her body. Only her heart would be left, hanging, beating arduously.

'I get such a bad consience,' Bra said. 'Because then it seems as if I've given up on her. But I haven't. It's just that it takes so long! Because they have searched everywhere.' She pushed away her plate and bowed her head. Her face was hidden behind her hair. 'And I haven't given up after all,' she said. 'If I go to bed at night, I haven't given up. But then I wake up and the light shines, and she still isn't found. Then I think she's dead.'

'Yes,' Bulma said. 'Because we hope that a wonder will happen while we are sleeping. That others will take it over from us while we rest and make everything right again. But it doesn't happen.'

Bra pulled the plate towards her again. Bulma looked at her red cheeks and had the feeling her heart almost burst from love. It was so big, that she almost broke from grief when she tought about Eighteen. If she would lose a child, she still would have one left. But Eighteen didn't have a man nor a child anymore. Only her own restless body.

'Trunks cries at night,' Bra said suddenly.

Bulma widened her eyes. What did she say? Trunks of eighteen lay crying during the night?

'Why?' she blurted out.

Bra shrugged her shoulders. 'I hear him through the wall. But I don't want to ask it.'

She finished her breakfast and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth. Went downstairs and pulled on a denim jacket and grabbed her rucksack. Bulma was pondering at the kitchen table. Had she misunderstood her son entirely? Was he in reality a sensitive soul who hid behind a indifferent facade? She wouldn't be the first one to be mistaken. Still, something kept bothering her and she didn't understand what. It was situated in a depth for which she didn't have clearance. Or was afraid to have.

On that moment she heard Trunks stumbling down the stairs. She stood up quickly to stroke Bra's shoulders before she went to school. She always had to do that, that last touch from now on meant the difference between life and death. If she forgot she would lose Bra. She tried to understand this strange reaction of her fear and decided to forget about it. This was most surely an exception.

'You ring at the door of Helena, right?' she said.

Bra nodded.

'You have to be together with at least two of you at all times. You aren't allowed to be uncareful.'

'We aren't,' Bra said seriously.

'If Helena is sick once, you come straight home and I'll bring you with the ?'

'Yes,' Bra said. 'Can I go now?'

She left. Became smaller and smaller while she walked through the street, just as Marron had become smaller and smaller, seen through the window of Eighteen's house. Trunks came out of the bedroom. She herself she walked over to the counter and began busying herself with bread and jam.

He went to sit without a word and grabbed a pack of milk. Again he drank from the pack itself, but this time she didn't say anything. Instead she dived into the refrigerator and took out a packet of sandwiches she had prepared, lovingly, the night before. He bought something to drink on school. She rather he didn't drink coke with his food, but had decided not to care much about it. There were so many things that could happen to young people. So many temptations, so many difficult things. Were they seen as nice and friendly, did someone want to be around them? Did he get the girl, a house and a job?

She laid the packet of sandwiches next to him and bumped his shoulder in a friendly matter. She had to find out about what Bra had said, that he cried at night. He didn't react to her touch.

'Will you come home immediately after school?' she asked nonchalantly. Because he couldn't use the car, he had to take the bus to school and he didn't like it.

'I have to pass by Yajirobe,' he said, as nonchalantly as she.

'Again? And what about your homework?'

She was immediately sorry about the whining for the homework. He did reasonably well on school and she hated herself when she harped about it. Especially after what had happened.

'We have to finish him,' he said. 'I don't get how I could ever have lived without it.'

He smeared some butter on a slice of bread, but didn't get much further. He smeared and smeared and then scraped it off again.

'Have you called Goten recently?' she asked.

He fumbled on his chair. 'I'll call. But first we have to finish the car.'

'And what about Sharpener?' she went on. 'Do you see him often?'

'Yes. Sometimes.'

'And your car?' she asked. 'Will it be as beautiful as before?'

If you wanted to reach your kids, you had to empathize in what was important for them, Bulma thought, and that car was important.

'The paintwork will be the most difficult part. It's something Yajirobe has never done before.'

'I get it.'

'Luckily he's black,' Trunks said. 'We have to get the colour right on the spot. Black is black.'

'That's true,' she smiled, but because he didn't lift his head to look at her, he didn't see the friendly smile.

'You have at least one comfort,' she said. 'you learn from everything. You'll see that you'll drive accident-free for years now. From that sort of stuff you become careful. Your father and I also have ended up with a dent sometimes. I three times. Twice it was my own fault,' she admitted.

He nodded and stood from the table. The bread lay untouched on his plate.

'I know you like the fact that Yajirobe repares that car for you,' Bulma said. 'But I don't like the fact you spend a lot of time with him.'

'I know that,' Trunks said numbly.

'Not that I don't trust you. And it's been a long while since he was involved in that theft. But you can chose your friends,' she said. 'And then I prefer you chose Goten. Or Sharpener.'

'Yeah, yeah,' Trunks said irritated while he shoved his chair underneath the table.

'So when the car is finished, you can stay away from him, right?'

'Yeah,' he mumbled, 'I can.'

He grabbed his backpack and walked into the hallway, quite a bit too fast, Bulma thought. She went after him. What Bra had said, she wanted to ask about it, but he shut her out. There wasn't even a small crack through which she could put her foot. He grabbed his coat from the hanger and put it on. Glancing at the clock, like he was on the late side. He wasn't.

Why don't I ask, Bulma wondered. Why don't I stop him and ask him? She felt her own cowardice and was ashamed of it. Walking back to the kitchen on her own and stared out of the window. She saw Trunks small back go through the gate. Everything was so hard. Marron, she thought, poor little Marron. Then she started to cry.

Author's notes: After this there will be at least two weeks of no updates. Because next week is full of tests for school and the week afterwards I'll be going on vacation (to the Dominican Republic!) So yeah, I'll try to write on my vacation but it will take a week for me to convert it into a word document which I can upload.

Take care and Review.


	14. Chapter 14

Author's notes: So this is a small update, so as not to keep you waiting. And I'm terribly sorry, I had planned to post this at New Year's but I fell ill and had to go the hospital. Therefore, it's here now.

Reviews:

MangekyoMasta510: Thanks for the review. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter. The next will be up soon too.

Black Seconds

Yamcha took a sheet of paper out of the printer in order to make a little airplane. Meanwhile he was listening to what was happening in the hallway. The chief of the department was having a conversation with a journalist from TV2Be. No one could accuse Piccolo for getting his job because of his charming personality; he was very unpleasant in front of the camera and neither did he have much to say, aside from the many hollow phrases he always used.

'Yes,' he said, 'we are investigating this as a crime.'

'Does this mean that you have given up hope of ever finding Marron alive?' the journalist asked, young and blonde, dressed in a black skirt with matching blouse. Not exactly a question that could be answerd affirmatively by Piccolo. That's why he said what he should say.

'We always have hope, off course.'

But he didn't look at her when he said that, he had his attention on the buttons of her blouse, wooden buttons that were decorated with an intricate design.

'The problem in this case,' he went on, because he wanted to be done with this as soon as possible, so he could retreat in his own office, 'is that the number of tips is a lot smaller than normal in this kind of cases.'

The journalist quickly fired her next question. 'What might be the cause for that, you think?' she asked. Piccolo pondered it for a while, then Yamcha heard his dry voice again. 'It means that at any rate this doesn't mean that this case doesn't preoccupy people. Because it does. But there just haven't been sightings that could help us further.'

He became more reluctant before the camera and the journalist increased the speed in order to ask all the questions that were jotted down on her notepad.

'Are there acctually concrete leads, or theories about what might have happened to Marron Chestnut?' she asked.

'Off course we have our theories,' Piccolo said, again with his attention fixed on the buttons of her blouse, 'but unfortunately we have to recognize that there are few leads in this case.' He paused a second. Then he ended the conversation by laying all the authority he could muster in his voice. 'Unfortunately I can't say any more at this moment.'

Finally he could flee to his office. Yamcha kept folding the plane. He knew Tien was just as reluctant, if it meant talking to journalists. But he also knew that Tien would have made another impression. He would have looked the journalist directly in the eye and his voice would have sounded steady and self assured. At the same time he was so present, so involved with his job, that people who were watching the news would feel this case was entrusted in the best hands. They could read from his face and could hear from his steady voice that he was engaged in it very deeply and very personally. As if he wanted to tell them: I take full responsibility for this case. I will find out what happened.

Yamcha had always been a master in folding paper planes. But now he was having a hard time. The paper was too thick. His fingers were too big and his nails too short, the creases weren't sharp enough. He scrunched up the paper and took a new sheet. When he held it between his fingers, a gust of wind made it wave. He felt shivery. On that moment Tien appeared in the doorway. He cast a long look on the journalist and her cameraman who were just disappearing in the lift.

'I went to a party last night', mumbled Yamcha, because Tien had noticed the box of paracetamol and the can of coke on his desk.

'Was it rough?' asked Tien, who looked at the white sheet of paper that was still waving between his fingers.

'You could say that', Yamcha said, with a brave smile. 'I had to arrest somebody.'

Tien blinked his eyes in confusion. 'You weren't at work, were you?'

Yamcha continued folding. Suddenly it was very important that this plane would work out. 'Do you also have that?' he asked. 'That you wait till the last moment before you say what kind of work you do? I mean, if you're around people, that is. At parties and all?'

'I don't go to a lot of parties,' Tien said. 'But I know the problem.'

Yamcha kept working on the plane. 'There was a very pedantic guy walking around there. The kind that has an opinion about everything. When I said I was working here, it was as if I stoked up a burning fire. He immediately flared up. Especially about the penal system he had a very clear opinion. I have heard it a lot before and normally I don't answer. But with this guy I felt an uncontrollable urge to give him a sconce.'

He turned the paper and kept on folding. 'He started to elaborate about the well kept prisons, with showers and heating and libraries and a cinema and a computer in the cell. About concerts with famous artists, and about shrinks and other staff who always stand ready for the prisoners. About fitness and excursions and vacation and visits. It was an endless enumeration of advantages, that normal citizens couldn't ever possess. In short: he thought you couldn't count a stay in a hotel with three meals a day as a punishment.'

'And that's why you locked him up?' said Tien, while he surpressed a smile. He himself had outgrown such behaviour already.

'The party was held at a friend of mine in Pepper city', Yamcha explained. 'He lives in one of those appartments there. He's married and has a son. Because of the party the kid was with his grandparents. The nursery was empty. Let us play a game, I proposed to that asshole. You are hereby condemned to six years of prison. And those years you have to sit out in a space of eight square meter. He thought it funny. Took his glass of cognac and immediately wanted to go to there. I reminded him that alcohol wasn't allowed in prison. He got that, so he put his glass down and we walked with the whole group to the nursery. I would say that room was approximately eight square meter, so the size was correct. I asked if they had a key of the room and they had it. We pushed the moron inside, with lots of yelling and shouting off course, he had no idea what waited him. There was a bunk in the room, and a tv, a bookcase, some comic books, a cd player and a couple of cd's. Afterwards we locked the door.'

Yamcha smiled contentedly, while he disapproved at the same time.

'And then?' asked Tien.

'Then we continued the party', said Yamcha. He had started on a new plane. 'But it didn't last long before he started screaming. That appartment is on the second floor,' he added, 'so he couldn't escape through the window. We let him yell till we were drunk. Then I walked over to the door and asked him what the problem was. Stop this stupid nonsens, he yelled.' Yamcha chuckled at the thought. 'Do you find this room too small, I asked. Yes, he admitted. You acctually need to sit out six more years, I said, but it's alright. You have been in prison for twenty minutes and you're already in panic.

We heard some noise in there and started to get worried. I said he shouldn't oppose me, then it would be even more difficult. Just surrender, I said. Surrender to time. Then it all goes automatically. Then it became quiet inside and we opened the door. You have never seen such a piece of thunder cloud before.'

'Do you find such behaviour good publicity for the department?' asked Tien.

'Yes,' said Yamcha. 'But you know, he didn't even get that the police and the prison are two completely different departments.'

'F-16,' he finally said, while he held up the plane.

'It looks more like a Hercules,' said Tien.

Yamcha let the plane fly away. It made a suprisingly gracious arc and landed softly on the ground.

'What did you come for anyway?' he asked, looking at Tien.

'I want you to go talk to Trunks Vegeta Briefs,' he said. 'The son of Eighteen's best friend.'

Yamcha stood up in order to retrieve the plane. Under the bottom some dust of the floor had been collected.

'You think it might give us something?'

'Most probably not,' Tien admitted. 'But that dear Yajirobe Sandwell was very nervous when I entered his garage. You can guess why. Likely I'm on the wrong trail. But Trunks left his home at around six. On the first of September. According to his mother he went to see his friend Goten, who lives in the center of the village. In order to get to Goten, he must have taken the same route which Marron took with her bike. He could have seen something. And about Yajirobe Sandwell, he's got a past. A conditional sentence for car theft a couple of years ago. He was also suspected of selling and using drugs, but there has never been a complaint filed against him. He drives in a huge Scorpio and works at a bowling business. I don't believe Sandwell kan live so expensively with his wages. It's possible he might also run a small business next to it.'

'Do you have to spend time on that, while we're in the middle of the case-Marron?'

'As long as we don't find her, we have time for such side trails. Trunks is going to school in the Orange Star High School. So if you're not feeling too lousy, I want you to go talk to him.'

Author's notes: So next chapter will also be short. But after that It'll be the usual length. Happy new year all of you!

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	15. Chapter 15

Author's notes: So this one came fairly quick since the previous chapter was quite short.

Reviews:

PIKACHU: Thanks for the review! Don't know what you mean about your father but it's nice to know you like it.

Black Seconds

Yamcha parked in the appointed place for visitors. At his left lay an indoor pool. The smell of chlorine infiltrated his nose and woke up mixed memories of his own time of going to school. The school existed out of several brown bricked buildings, but Trunks Vegeta Briefs was situated in the main building. The door of the class room was opened by a thin, gangly boy in jeans. Yamcha's uniform made him step back.

'Trunks Vegeta Briefs?' asked Yamcha.

The boy yelled something to the class. According to his face he was aware of what was going on, he knew about the bond between the Briefs' family and Marron's. A moment later Trunks appeared. His face paled slowly.

'I have to talk to you for a moment', said Yamcha. 'Let's go sit in the car. It will only last a couple of minutes.'

Trunks followed, dazed. He put his fists deep in his pockets and stepped, almost with distaste, in the car. His eyes glided over all the devices on the dashboard, he was startled. Yamcha turned down the window and lit a cigarette.

'Because your family is close to the Chestnuts,' he said. 'And because you live in the same neighbourhood. Moreover you are often away with your car.'

A lot of thoughts flitted through Trunks' head. He was the brother of Marron's best friend. But he now found himself thinking that the expression 'Brother of best friend' sounded suspicious, that such an affinity could be used against him.

'On the first of September you were also gone,' said Yamcha. 'You drove to the centre of town at around six o' clock in the evening.'

Pause. Trunks was forced to nod an affirmative. He had the feeling as if he was confessing.

'To visit an acquaintance?' asked Yamcha.

'Yes,' said Trunks.

'What's his name?'

Trunks didn't get why Yamcha would want to know that. But he could easily answer that. It wasn't a secret after all. Still, he was surprised at what they all wanted to know.

'His name's Goten,' Trunks finally said. 'Goten Son.'

'Right,' said Yamcha. He grabbed a note pad and scribbled down the name.

'Would you describe yourself as perceptive?' he asked.

'I don't know,' Trunks mumbled. He stared at a point on the dashboard, about the place where the airbag was situated. He wanted to have one right now. A big pillow that covered his whole face.

'If I ask you what you have seen during that ride, what can you remember?'

Trunks searched his memory, but stayed silent.

'Everybody who was around that area on the first of September has been asked to report himself. Everyhting is important, especially sightings of motorists. We didn't hear anything from you.'

'I haven't seen anything,' Trunks said simply. 'I didn't have anything to report.'

'So you didn't pass any cars?' asked Yamcha.

'It was very quiet on the road,' Trunks said. 'I'm sure I may have passed some car, but don't ask me any types. I was playing music,' he said.

'What were you playing?' Yamcha asked, interested.

'Gee, several,' he said. 'Lou Reed. Eminem.'

'Alright', Yamcha nodded. Even this he wrote down.

Again a pause. This one lasted longer. Trunks became nervous of the quiet.

'Why did you drag me out of class?'

'I didn't drag you,' said Yamcha. 'You came voluntarily.'

He started another subject.

'You had had an accident that day with the car? Did that happen in Capsiglass?'

Trunks studied his own filthy sports shoes on the bottom of the car.

'No, in the town. It sucked real hard,' he said, angry. 'I was driving on a roundabout. Some idiot cut me of, and I was pushed to the side and my right fender made contact with the guardrail. The worst thing is that he just drove away. Didn't even stop.'

'Which roundabout?' aksed Yamcha.

'Which?' Trunks breathed deep. 'The one near the bridge of the centre. In the centre.'

'Is there a guardrail?'

'Yes. It follows the river.'

Yamcha thought about it, in order to remember the right roundabout. Then he nodded.

'Yes, that's true. Did you come from the centre or were you on the other side?'

'I was driving in the direction of the centre.'

'So we're talking about the part of the guardrail in the turn toward the birdge?'

'Yes.'

'Was there a lot of traffic on the roundabout?'

'Some.'

'Witnesses?'

'Witnesses?' Trunks asked unsure. 'There were some cars. But I don't know how much they saw. It was dark,' he explained.

'And the fender? A lot of damage?'

Trunks nodded. 'Yeah. The dim light is broken. But the dent is the worst.'

'By what kind of car where you cut of?'

'Didn't see that. He was large and dark. Looked kind of new.'

'And it happened in the evening, you said?'

'Yes,' said Trunks.

'What did you do after the accident? Your mother said you only came home very late. Around one am?'

'I went back to Yajirobe,' Trunks said.

Yamcha stayed quiet and tried to put the information in order. The note pad helped him. On the sheet before him stood: Goten Son.

'Back to Yajirobe?' he asked aloud. 'I thought you went to visit Goten?'

'Yes, yes,' Trunks said. He was confused. 'I was wrong.'

'Is that the Yajirobe who's helping you to repair your car?'

They talk to each other, Trunks thought, they note it down and report. Nothing leaves their attention.

'And the car that was driving unresponsibly, so that he damaged your car?' asked Yamcha. 'Do you want to charge him?'

'I already said that he drove on,' mumbled Trunks, irritated.

'Alright. What were you going to do on the highway?' Yamcha asked patiently.

Trunks hesitated. 'Nothing,' he admitted. 'I just like to drive. On the highway. Then I can just open him up completely.'

'Yes, alright,' Yamcha nodded, understanding. 'Now, about something else,' he said. 'The bike of Marron. Do you know what kind of bike it is?'

'I have no idea.'

'You probably don't hang around with her often, she's only ten after all. I understand. But she visited your house a lot. And the colour? Do you remember that?'

'I believe he's yellow.'

'That's right.'

'But I know that from the papers,' Trunks said. 'They're always talking about that yellow bike.'

'And you didn't see her on the first of September?'

'Then I would have reported that,' Trunks said.

'Yes, you would have reported that, wouldn't you?'

'Off course!' Trunks became agitated. It was very cramped in the car, he felt himself being pushed in the proverbial corner.

'How long have you know Yajirobe Sandwell?' asked Yamcha.

'A while,' he said. 'Why do you interrogate me like this?'

'Do you find this annoying?' Yamcha queried, while he kept the gaze of Trunks.

'Yajirobe has nothing to do with this,' Trunks said evasively.

'With this?' Yamcha asked innocently. 'You mean Marron's disappearance?'

'Yes. And we don't hang with each other very often. He's only helping me with my car.'

Yamcha threw the stub of his cigarette out of the window. Then he nodded toward the school building. 'Do you like it here?'

Trunks made a face. 'It goes. I'm done next spring.'

'What kind of plans do you have after this?'

'You're even worse than my mother,' Trunks said with chargin. 'I don't have any plans. Maybe get a job,' he said. 'Most of all in a records store. Or a video library.'

'The searching for Marron will continue,' said Yamcha. 'Are you going to participate, you think?'

Trunks turned away and looked out of the window. 'If my mother asks me,' he said. 'But I don't really want to.'

'A lot of people think a search party is exciting,' Yamcha said.

'I don't,' Trunks answered.

Author's notes: So now, about the results of the poll. So far, Black Seconds is in the clear (though it doesn't have the highest votes). But everything could change. The poll will last to the end of January. Then I will post on evey story which one will be finished first and which one will be temporarily put on hiatus.

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